


Mon Petit Sage

by NoBaggage



Category: Captive Prince - C. S. Pacat
Genre: Before Captive Prince, Big brother adulation, First Crush, Foreshadowing, Innocence, Kind of a Laurent origin story, Laurent has a type, M/M, The Regent ruins everything, When Laurent Could be led by the nose, Who the heck is Triston?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-13
Updated: 2018-03-17
Packaged: 2018-12-01 21:17:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 25,368
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11494935
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NoBaggage/pseuds/NoBaggage
Summary: We know that Laurent had only been with one other, before Damen. That doesn’t mean that smol Laurent, aged eleven, didn’t ever have a crush, reciprocated or not. What if he also had different world views, before Marlas, compared to the person we met at the start of Captive Prince? Would that hurt our hearts even more?





	1. The Third Summer

Laurent of Vere took a great deal of pleasure in small victories.

He checked inside, lifting the soft leather flap of his satchel. Due to a quick diversion through the royal kitchens he had managed to liberate (the first item wrapped in canvas because he was particular about mixing foods) a meaty thigh bone, two apples, a very ripe and juicy looking pear and a bunch of grapes as purple as the bruise on his shin. The bruise, a week old injury from tree climbing, still ached a little when he ran.

He needn’t have swiped the food. The royal kitchen staff, like most servants in the palace, were bewitched. Any servant in Arles was more than willing to give the fair young prince whatever he asked for, within reason. He knew his looks, an annoyance as well as a gift, allowed him to charm his way into and out of most situations.

He glanced over his shoulder, checking that he hadn’t been followed, and smiled to himself. He filled a waterskin at the fountain in the northeast courtyard and whistled once. Within moments his favourite alaunt hound, Biette, was pressing into his side, eager for petting or adventure.

Laurent was about to provide both.

“This way,” he whispered. They ran, side-by-side, Laurent in a half-crouch. A boy and his dog. They were headed to the grove of willows by the tributary to the Grand Lac. It was a sheltered and hidden spot, just outside the towering walls and parapets of the palace at Arles. It was his special place. Only Auguste and Triston knew of it. This was where Laurent could be entirely himself.

He sat, cross-legged on the soft, mossy grass. It was mid afternoon and the summer ahead seemed filled with endless promise. The skies were clear and the heat was unrelenting, but the dense foliage from low hanging willow branches left the spot dappled by sunlight and there was a soft breeze blowing uphill across the water.

He opened the satchel between his knees. Biette sat to attention in front of him, her tongue lolling, drips of anticipatory saliva wetting the ground between her paws.

“Good girl. Wait.” Laurent unslung the waterskin, which hung on a strap over his shoulder and took a quick draught. He loosened the tight laces around his throat, shrugged and pulled further at them until his jacket was almost undone. He let a little water dribble over the back of his neck. He moaned in grateful relief as the water cooled him from the run.

Laurent unwrapped the thigh bone and placed it to one side, just behind where he was sitting. Biette’s eyes were unwavering, her body poised, awaiting his signal.

“Do you want it?” Biette was trembling with need. He praised her good manners again and delivered the command with a click of his tongue. She bounded behind him and hunkered down on all fours. Once she had clamped her teeth around the bone and was settled, Laurent leaned back, using the hound as a back rest. Unconcerned, Biette gnawed away with rapt devotion.

Laurent hefted the satchel a little higher in his lap and removed the pear. He wanted to eat it first because it was perfect and unmarred. Any longer in the bag and it would bruise and spoil. He took a bite at the base of the fruit where it curved like a woman’s thigh and closed his eyes. Mild sweetness flooded his mouth with the white flesh of the fruit. He sighed in pleasure.

He reached into the bottom of his satchel, stroking his hand along the spine of the true prize, borrowed (without asking) from the royal library. It was a cloth bound volume of ancient myths and legends. He stretched his young, thin neck and looked up and down the riverbank. No sign of him. He settled back against Biette and took a moment to enjoy the pear, listening to the grind and snap of Biette’s teeth and the gentle gurgling of her gut as she digested her food.

More than anything, Laurent craved reading. He put a great deal of value in the knowledge it gave him. It felt like power, a kind of power that didn’t require great height or physical strength, a kind of power that wasn’t available to everyone, only to the very inquisitive or clever. People like him, people like his mother.

Queen Hennike, something of a scholar herself, encouraged Laurent to pursue learning and reading to the full extent of his abilities. It was clear to the queen and the crown prince, if not the king, that Laurent’s abilities were vast.

He was skilled in arithmetic, he had a penchant for language and he devoured the sciences, but his particular passion was history. The history of his own kingdom, Vere, was interesting enough but the surrounding lands, Patras, Vask and Akielos held endless fascination; the ways they were alike and the many cultural and historical differences.

Only Auguste knew of Laurent’s deep admiration for Akielos. It was an admiration not shared by their father, King Aleron. Laurent was shrewd enough not try and dissuade his father’s opinion. It was a matter for the future, for the time when Auguste would rule and Laurent would help him.

Laurent admired the straightforwardness of Akielon ideals, the tales of their heroic battles, the legends of the lineage of kings. He coveted the deceptive simplicity of their art. He found it beautiful, different from the ornate designs favoured by his own culture. He lingered over etchings of the Akielon sculptures of the human form in marble and bronze. The male nudes made the Akielons look like gods, powerfully muscled and utterly compelling to Laurent’s eyes. He longed to meet an Akielon warrior in person and find out whether these likenesses could be found in the reality.

The pear was demolished, nothing left of it but a stalk. Laurent tossed it onto the ground and ran his tongue over his sticky lips, savouring the last of the juice. A twig snapped behind him and his heart swelled so that he thought it might burst.

Laurent said, “About time.” He jumped to his feet and shrugged out of his jacket. With a quick hand he tossed the gold circlet from his brow so that it rested on top of his jacket, under the tree. His face broke into a wide grin when he saw that it was Triston, at last.

“My prince,” Triston said, paying an elaborate but rather irreverent obeisance. He lifted his face and his eyes sparked with hopeful glee. “Do you have it?”

“Of course,” said Laurent.

They stood, watching each other warily, and because they were young boys, they both dropped into a fighting stance. Triston paced two steps to Laurent’s left and Laurent circled Triston in the opposite direction. Triston feinted and moments later Laurent attempted his own feint; they were daring each other to make the first move. Laurent couldn’t stand it. Desperate with joy at seeing Triston again, he leapt forward and locked his arms around Triston’s shoulders. Triston countered, winding Laurent with a jab to his ribs and kicking his legs from under him. Within moments they were on the ground, wrestling and laughing as they rolled among the grass and moss of the riverbank.

Biette paused her mauling of the thigh bone to glance at the commotion. She gave a bored wuff and returned to her meal, unimpressed by the antics of human male youth.

“Enough,” said Laurent. He was pinned to the ground, breathless with the game. He looked up and starred at the other boy. Triston wore his hair at shoulder length. It had taken just over a year for Laurent’s hair to grow out to almost the same length. Triston's hair was as dark as Laurent's was fair.

Triston had recently arrived from Varenne, where he lived in the port city of Mer Montagne. He and his family were in Arles for the summer. Triston’s skin was already tanned to a delicious smooth honey. His eyes, heavily fringed with lashes the colour of ink, were the deepest, most arresting brown.

“Do you yield, sir?” said Triston. His breath fanned Laurent’s face. He smelled faintly of mutton and cheese, and fresh, clean sweat.

Laurent licked his lips and let his body grow limp. Both Laurent and Triston were rake thin, and yet to enter the growth spurt that would turn them from boys to men. Triston was the taller of the two, and his bones held the promise of great height and strength. Laurent let himself savour the feeling of Triston close, holding him down, _just a little longer_ , he thought.

“I yield.”

Triston continued to pin Laurent to the ground, his arms spreadeagled, holding his wrists. “Why do you stare at me like that?”

Laurent had been staring at Triston’s widow’s peak, the way his hair swept up on either side of his forehead and fell about his face in dark curtains. He stared at his favourite mole, it appeared low on Triston’s left cheek.

Laurent said, “I was despairing how unfortunate for a moderately skilled fighter to have such a moronic face.”

What Laurent was really thinking was that he might die wondering what it would be like to press his lips to the mole on that cheek.

Triston rolled off Laurent’s body, onto his back. The two boys lay with their arms touching, staring up through the overhanging branches of willow to the blue sky beyond. They listened to the sounds of the riverbank, water running over rocks, the croak of frogs, the trill of nearby birds, and their own breaths, loud but slowing.

Triston said, “I’m thirteen next week and bigger than you. It goes some way to explain why I’m stronger and a better fighter.”

“You’re not a better fighter. I lost my grip on your sweaty skin is all.”

Triston nudged Laurent’s arm. “Don’t be sore, your Highness.”

“I’m not,” said Laurent. In fact, in that moment, lying next to Triston, he was happier than he could remember being for some time. “And you need not be so formal.”

“Are you still going to read to me, _Laurent_?”

The way that Triston said his name, it made Laurent's insides clench, every time. Triston's voice had not yet broken. It was high and clear, with only a hint of affectation.

Laurent said, “As you wish.”

Almost an hour later they were still buried deep in story, lost in other worlds. Laurent was resting once more against Biette’s long flank. The dog herself had fallen asleep. Triston was lying to one side with his head resting on Laurent thighs and Laurent was holding the volume higher on his lap. From time to time he lifted the book to make sure that Triston hadn’t fallen asleep but each time he found that the other boy was hanging onto his every word. Two apple cores and the discarded stem from the purple grapes lay on the ground beside them.

Laurent read on:

_And the giant sea serpent guided the flotilla of merchant ships out of the storms and safely to the harbour of the neighbouring kingdom._

_So grateful was Princess Aceline that she said, “Serpent, you have bravely assisted me and my kingdom three times and shown yourself to be noble and true. Name your price. Anything in my power, you shall have it.”_

_The serpent hissed in his strange voice, “There is only one thing I have ever desired, your Highness. Your hand in…”_

“What on earth are you two doing?”

The boys had been so caught up in the tale that they had not heard the approaching hoof beats on the soft ground of the riverbank.

Triston looked up and beheld Auguste of Vere. 

At twenty-one years, and just entering his prime, Auguste appeared like a hero from the pages of folklore. He was golden, tall and magnificent to behold. He sat astride his shining black stallion, resplendent in royal blue. His cape and the blanket of his horse bore the starburst insignia of the Crown Prince.

Triston scrambled to his feet and bowed low. “Your _Highness_. Laurent was reading. Ancient tales. He is quite marvellous at it. He does all the voices and everything.”

Auguste’s face broke into a confused smile. “Fairy-tales? Laurent, why on earth? That is not like-”

He stopped himself, noticing the mottled puce on Laurent’s cheeks. “Of course,” Auguste changed tack seamlessly. “My brother is quite the skilled narrator.” 

Auguste was as empathetic as he was observant. The relief that had flooded Laurent’s face was all he needed to know. He dismounted, dropping his reins, allowing his surprisingly placid stallion to wander, tearing at some nearby blades of grass. “No need for all that bowing, Triston. It is good to see you. I’m sure that Laurent will delight in having you as a companion again this summer.”

“Yes, your Highness.”

Auguste ruffled the younger boy’s hair. “You do have leave to call me by my name you know.”

Triston looked up. The prince's height blocked the light, and he was very broad through the shoulders. He was smiling, kindly. “Auguste,” Triston said, and returned the smile with gratitude.

Auguste turned to Laurent and said, “Brother, I’m afraid you will need to postpone further reading for today." He inclined his head to one side. "Triston's mother wishes for him join her to make up the fourth in a game of Triomphe with her ladies-in-waiting.”

Having recovered his sangfroid, Triston now feigned a wound to his heart and stumbled backwards, falling to the ground. “A fate worse than death, your Highness. Please order me to another task. Allow me to vanquish your enemies, go into battle, _anything_.”

“I may be the future King of Vere, but even I am not brave enough to confront your mother when it comes to her desire to win at cards.”

Triston sighed with resignation. He stood up and dusted himself off. With an exaggerated flourish, he bowed first to Auguste and then Laurent. “Well then, sweet Laurent. Until tomorrow?”

Despite the fact that the endearment was a tease, Laurent blushed. He looked to Auguste who winked and nodded. “I’ll be here,” Laurent said. “Same time.”

They watched Triston scramble up the hill and away to the palace. The back of his shirt was stained with dirt and moss and he had a twig in his hair.

“It’s good to see you spend time with a friend closer to your own age.”

“My first, really. Since mother has been unwell there are few nobles with children my age at Arles.”

“I know.” Auguste was thoughtful. “Is it so very terrible to spend most of your time with a brother a great deal older than yourself?”

Laurent blinked up at Auguste. “You know I’d rather spend time with you than anyone.”

Auguste’s smile was quick and full of lopsided charm. He picked up the reins of his horse and swung himself back into the saddle. He held out a hand to Laurent and pulled him with ease to join him, sitting in front. “Take the reins,” he said. “We’re off to sword practise.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know...could this be a thing? Not a big thing, but a bit more than this, thing?
> 
> Thanks, as always, to Rinabina for the encouragement.


	2. A Matter of Taste

Children in the court of Vere were to be seen, occasionally, only at certain banquets, and were to refrain from speaking unless addressed directly.

Laurent knew well his place within the court. His behaviour in public settings was without reproach. He was respectful and deferential. He would never do anything to embarrass the Crown.

The same could not be said of the Crown when it came to Laurent’s sensibilities.

Pets were not flaunted in front of children but you didn’t need to be very observant to witness their seductive, pampered and spoiled behaviour. At age eleven, Laurent’s sense of observation was acute. Watching nobles and pets together left him uneasy and often appalled.

He knew that his father kept several pets in his harem. It was expected. It was how all nobles displayed status before the court, by flaunting wealth on pets as though they were a moving display. Of course, no one could outdo the status of the king, and King Aleron made sure of it. Laurent also knew that his father made use of his pets, sexually. Nearly everybody did.

Queen Hennike was an exception. It was commonly accepted that the many years between the birth of Auguste and Laurent had taken a hard toll on the queen. They had been tragic years, filled with miscarriages and stillbirths. So when the queen expressed a desire to be attended only by ladies-in-waiting with no slaves or pets, it was overlooked, ignored. The queen had endured enough and was not to be challenged on this minor infringement to court life. She was rarely seen in the company of the king, only at official ceremonies or banquets. Beside the two sons they shared, they had little in common.

As a young child, Laurent spent most evenings in the company of his mother and her ladies-in-waiting. They dined together and, when invited, Laurent would retire with his mother to her rooms.

Typically, royal children regardless of whether boy or girl, kept their hair long. Laurent disliked that it made him look feminine. He also hated hair about his face, getting in the way when he played games. Until he was nine years of age, he wore it pulled back sharply in a ponytail or tight braid.

The times he didn't resent his long hair were those quiet evenings spent with his mother. Laurent would sit at her feet and read to her. She would untie the leather bindings and he would sigh as the tension left his head. 

”You cannot hide your beauty, my son, no matter how tightly you bind your hair.” She massaged his scalp while he read aloud. It was the closest thing to an embrace he ever remembered them sharing.

Laurent could tell that his mother had once been a great beauty, even though it had faded over time and through her many illnesses. He took after her, both in appearance and manner. He had a natural intellectual bent and was perfectly at ease with his own company.

Unfortunately, the queen’s attachment to her younger son was inconsistent. When she was in good health she was almost obsessive in her desire to have him near. Then there were times when her health weakened or her mind wandered, and she became an absent presence in his life.

The only true constant in Laurent’s young life was Auguste.

Auguste did keep several pets. At only twenty-one and as heir, it wasn’t in his nature to provoke the expectations of his father’s court. But Laurent knew that, although Auguste allowed his pets to place their hands on him in public, creating an _impression_ , in private it was a different matter. August did not choose to couple with male pets, as was common practise in Vere. He preferred women, a fact he had made clear on many occasions to his younger brother.

Laurent avoided drawing the attention of his father. It wasn’t that his father was cruel or indifferent; it was just that they had so little in common. Laurent knew he would always come up short, being compared to a first son and heir as wonderful as Auguste. King Aleron and Auguste were alike, strong and tall; they built relationships easily and were comfortable in the company of others. They were good at leading and impressive on the field and in battle.

Still, Laurent longed for the day when he would be considered a man and could speak his mind, freely, in any company. He held strong opinions that he longed to share. For now he was grateful that Auguste valued his thoughts. They confided everything to one another. They had discussed it as brothers and future rulers, wanting to do away with the practice of keeping people as chattel when Auguste was king.

He could well do without the matter of his looks and the way everyone commented on them. He wasn’t very old when he realised that there was little point to it, both his looks and the talk. People often spoke about him as though he were an object or prized stock, not a human being with a mind of his own. His looks weren’t something he had control over or could improve through studious undertaking or physical exertion. They simply were.

Regardless, the talk went on. Some lord or lady would marvel over his high cheekbones or the promise of a strong jaw when he matured, the fine luminescence of his skin, and those eyes, the most startling and pellucid blue. The worst was the talk and the touching of his hair. They were all fair, Queen Hennike, Auguste and Laurent. But whereas his mother and Auguste were a darker, more common gold, Laurent’s hair was so fine and light as to be almost silver.

It was at some point during his tenth year, that Laurent was commanded to attend his first royal banquet.

He was dressed in sombre clothing of deep royal blue. He remembered that although he was tightly laced, the fabric was soft to the touch. He made himself be still and not fidget. The gold circlet was placed on his head and he was escorted to the grand hall by two courtiers. They paused before a set of heavily gilded double doors. The courtiers tapped twice and the doors swung open. Laurent’s stomach tightened but he lifted his head and entered as a herald announced, “Prince Laurent of Acquitart and Vere, second in line to the throne.

Laurent had never witnessed such grandeur. There were three long tables arranged in a horseshoe, covered with heavy brocaded cloth. The room was awash in lanterns and candlelight and delicately scented with intricately prepared dishes of meats and fruits. Everything was artfully arranged on golden platters, there were ornate goblets and beautiful curved jugs holding wine.

The king and queen were seated in the middle of the head table and Laurent was directed to seat next to his mother. His mouth watered from the delicious scents wafting from the platters but he sat with his head held high, his back straight, and patiently waited to be served by pages, as was expected. He had never before felt so grown up. Or royal.

As the nine-course meal progressed, King Aleron became more and more annoyed. It was as though no one had ever noticed Laurent before; such was the endless discourse from various members of the minor nobility, all espousing his younger son’s beauty.

Aleron despaired loudly, addressing no one in particular, “What use are looks like that for a man, much less a prince? The boy is almost ten years and wears clothing that fit Auguste at eight. He will never rule and he is physically undersized. He is unlikely to grow to be a great warrior.”

“Laurent has an abundance of other skills,” Queen Hennike’s tone was measured but with a hint of steel.

“Skills,” scoffed the king.

“He has intelligence. He has a great capacity for knowledge and he is shrewd beyond his years. In time he will offer much wise counsel to Auguste when he is king.”

The king rolled his eyes and said, “A diplomat and a scholar. How will his beauty benefit those endeavours? What is the point to these looks of his?”

Auguste, who had not been present at the banquet, would have deftly changed the subject. It was on the tip of Laurent’s tongue to defend himself, but he held it. It took a great deal of self-control.

The Regent, brother to King Aleron and one of his closest advisors, had been listening intently to the conversation between king and queen.

Laurent liked his uncle. He was kind to him and showed great interest in Laurent’s pursuits and achievements. In the role the Regent played at court, he seemed to receive many of the benefits of a senior royal position, without the added strain of being the supreme ruler. King Aleron often turned to the Regent for advice. He also turned to Herode, a senior member of the Veretian Council and a close friend. The advice the two men offered was often in conflict but the king appeared to value strong opinions.

Laurent imagined his far off future, one where _he_ might be Regent to his brother, King Auguste. Laurent hoped that he would be able to provide Auguste with a variety of alternatives to any future challenges for Vere and that they would work through to find the best solutions together. A true partnership.

The Regent was considerably younger than King Aleron. It reminded Laurent of the difference in age between Auguste and himself. Furthermore, the Regent had never been forced to marry or produce heirs. All of these factors held great appeal to a young, impressionable prince.

Laurent had been sitting quietly, cutting his food into small pieces and eating it, while the king and queen debated his looks. When he glanced up he saw that the Regent was staring at him, an intent expression on his face. The Regent had just eaten a sweetmeat and was slowly licking the powdered sugar from each of his fingers.

He said, “Laurent’s looks are exceptional. But there is always purpose to beauty, be it in man or woman. Laurent will learn his looks are a tool that he can wield to gain great favour, in diplomacy or love.”

From his position at table next to the king, the Regent stood and rearranged the robes of deep red that hung around his shoulders. Around his neck he wore a golden medallion, signifying his office. He held it as he walked, rubbing his fingers over the surface until he stood facing where Laurent sat. His other hand was held in a fist and when he opened his fingers he revealed a candied fruit, one of Laurent’s favourite treats.

“Allow me,” said the Regent. Laurent had not yet finished the last course in his dinner. Despite this, the Regent took the sweet between thumb and forefinger and brought it to Laurent’s lips. Surprised, Laurent opened his mouth.

The Regent brushed some powdered sugar from Laurent’s bottom lip and held his chin in one hand, sliding a finger along his jaw and winking at him as he did so.

The Regent was tall and solid with a neatly clipped, dark beard. His handsome face shone with mirth and his blue eyes sparkled. Laurent smiled back at his uncle, feeling a sense of camaraderie with the older man. The Regent strolled back to his seat next to the king.

Queen Hennike spoke quickly, “Auguste has told me that though Laurent is slight, he shows great promise in sword work. He has tenacity and works hard. And he may grow a great deal when his body changes.”

The king, who was somewhat in his cups by that stage of the evening, drained another goblet of wine and muttered, “He can disarm his opponents with the beauty of his smile, I suppose.” After a quiet belch, he added, “Imagine his worth if he had been born female? Bargaining a political marriage of alliance with a face like that to entice with. _Then_ those looks may have been worth something. To Vere.”

Laurent remained silent. Although his father’s words had stung, he found that he was in agreement with them.

His looks, such as they were, were worth nothing.

Before the entertainments of the evening commenced, Laurent was given leave to retire to his rooms. He dismissed his attendants once he neared the entrance to his chambers. Instead of entering his own quarters, he took a diversion down a nearby passageway to the rooms of the Royal Physician, a man named Paschal.

The physician’s rooms were unlike any other in the palace. It was a wonderland of strange objects and smells and held endless fascination for a curious boy like Laurent. There were shelves decorated with glass jars filled with different types of dried herbs and labels indicating their purpose. There were mortars and pestles made from marble or granite in all shapes and sizes, and jars upon jars of strange smelling ointments and salves.

Paschal was in attendance at the entertainments following the banquet, so Laurent knew he didn’t need to rush. He hunted through the rooms until he came upon the large satchel he was looking for. He untied the leather bindings with care so as not to dislodge the items inside from their allotted place. Inside was a mixture of tools, used by Paschal to heal or treat his royal patients: cups for bleeding, thread for sewing wounds, knives and other sharp instruments.

Laurent wrapped his hands around the large pair of shears he had been looking for.

Without ceremony, he used the shears to cut through his braid, close to the base of his skull. He then continued, chopping at his hair until all of it was close to his head, uneven and spiky. Before long, a carpet of soft white strands and a single curled long braid spread around his feet.

He remembered his mother the next morning, heartbroken. He recalled his sadness in having disappointed her. He was sorry for upsetting her but the overwhelming memory he had was of his own sense of control, and with that control came deep satisfaction. He had been banished from his mother’s chambers and sent to his own rooms to think on his actions.

What he thought was that his actions had been the most freeing experience of his short life thus far.

Later that morning, Auguste arrived home from a visit to Chastillon, and came quickly thereafter to rescue Laurent from boredom and exile.

When he beheld Laurent’s shorn head, he had laughed and laughed. “You are a rare one, Mon Petit Sage.” He held Laurent by the shoulders, studying his new look. “I’m afraid your looks are as arresting as ever. You have only drawn attention to the perfect planes of your face and the unique beauty of your eyes. Still, you will not be confused with a maiden any longer.”

Because he had cut his hair so unevenly it was decided that Laurent’s head be shaved. Given the unseasonal coolness of that winter, he was given a selection of soft, brimless caps that lent him quite an attractive and jaunty air.

Auguste added, “And your long hair will no longer be a distraction during sword practise.”

“I’m ready to practise, brother.”

Laurent was always ready to practise. Auguste had been the one to insist that Laurent be trained extensively for combat but Laurent took to the challenge with fervour, always eager to make his brother proud.

Laurent was aware that he was spindly and undersized for his age. He hoped that if he worked hard, with training and exercise, it would help him to grow tall and strong. He wanted to prove them all wrong. He ate more than he needed and went to sleep, every night, praying to the gods for his growth spurt to be soon and impressive.

“I cannot see the necessity, Auguste,” King Aleron had remarked about Laurent’s extensive battle training. “You are our warrior leader. Laurent will always have your protection. He should have some instruction, yes, but you are pushing the child beyond his capabilities.”

August had insisted. “No, father. He will surprise us all. And it is wise to be prepared, who knows what the future will hold?”

So they trained. Auguste and Laurent worked side-by-side, almost daily in the royal arena. They began each session by stretching and a working through a series of strengthening exercises, using body weight, arms, legs and core strength. Auguste was impressed by how flexible Laurent was; he could perform a backward flip in mid air and bend his head to his knees.

Next they would run, lap after lap of the arena. Laurent was competitive and it gave him a thrill when he passed his brother or outlasted him in endurance.

“You’re too good,” Auguste would pant, breathless and doubled over. “You have the energy and agility of a chamois.”

Laurent brimmed with pride at any compliment from his brother. It made him ever more eager to work hard. And Auguste made sure to compliment his brother, often.

After warm ups, Auguste would take Laurent through a well-rehearsed set of advances and parries and then introduce him, each week, to a new manoeuvre which they would practise several times.

Finally, Laurent would be allowed to spar. Auguste only let him use a wooden sword and Laurent would practise with one of the Prince’s Guard. Often it was the tall, hulking soldier Orlant or the slightly shorter and more forbearing, Jord.

If the soldiers thought it beneath their station to train a young child, they kept it to themselves. Such was the respect that Auguste received from his men.

The first time that Laurent met Triston it was six months after he had shaved his head. His hair was growing out but still fairly short all over, not like other boys his age who wore their hair at shoulder length.

Laurent had spotted him straight away, the first day he was presented at court.

Triston was the son of a minor noble from Mer Montagne and he had come with his parents to summer in Arles. Despite being almost two years Laurent’s senior, Laurent was drawn to him. Making friends had never been a priority before but there was something about Triston, he was fun, had an irreverent spark in his eye, and he was full of ideas for games or adventure. And he was beautiful.

“Is this the latest court fashion?” Triston had asked him the first time they spent time alone together, playing with the hounds and climbing trees in the royal orchard. He had run his hand casually over Laurent’s hair and Laurent had felt himself shiver.

Laurent had given Triston an abridged version of the story.

“Perhaps I should wear my hair the same way?”

Laurent had looked at Triston’s widow’s peak and the way his hair swept up and down to his shoulders. He said, “Don’t even think about it.”

Apart from that single observation, Triston never commented on Laurent’s looks, not during that summer or the next.

This summer was their third time together and they spent every spare moment in each other’s company. It seemed to Laurent as though Triston was the only person in his world who never commented on his looks. Irrationally, it bothered him. Probably because Triston was the only person in his world to whom Laurent _wanted_ to be attractive.

Instead, during the summer that Triston had just turned thirteen and Laurent was eleven, Triston passed comments about girls.

“Have you seen Lady Deline’s daughter, Igerne?”

“The one with the big thighs?”

“Exactly. She has turned fourteen and she has _curves._ Not just down there, she has…” Triston mimed a set of curvaceous breasts. Laurent thought it was a bit of a stretch. Igerne had more like a set of undersized apples on her chest. They looked high and hard. He really couldn’t see why anyone got excited over a pair of breasts. They served little point beyond feeding of the young.

Triston said, “Have you ever kissed her?”

Laurent’s heart sank.

He lamented later to Auguste, “Triston doesn’t like me.”

“Of course he likes you. The two of you are inseparable.”

Laurent just stared at Auguste until he said, “Oh.”

“He likes girls, Auguste. I want him to like me like that. What do I do?”

Auguste had looked at his beautiful young brother and felt his heart ache for him. “How about we go for a ride?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Regent...ick.
> 
> I'd love to hear from you if you are reading along. And if you are, please tell a friend x
> 
> Thanks to Rinabina and Virginia for the encouragement. They're my team.


	3. Choice and Consequence

Auguste led them through the forested area to the south of the castle walls; a winding and seldom used path shaded with ancient trees; gnarled oak, conical pines and beech trees, sprawling like mystical beasts bearing many twisted and outreaching arms. The branches from the trees joined together above their heads, so dense that it felt eerily like the inside of a cavernous room.

Laurent listened to the careful drag and clop of hooves on hard-pressed, red earth and the infrequent blow of equine breath. Around him the drowsy buzz of insects and in the near distance the monkey-like bark of a woodpecker. As they passed bushes of lower growing foliage, invisible creatures rustled, retreating to safer locales. To an impressionable young boy, the forest created an aura that held the possibility of magic.

Auguste sat relaxed, tall and impossibly golden astride the powerful haunches of his black stallion. The blue blanket beneath his saddle adorned with the starburst pattern of the crown prince. Auguste was the embodiment of a hero, a leader, and the person everyone admired and longed to serve.

Auguste moved to one side and ducked a low hanging branch; a few leaves tangled in his hair nonetheless. When he looked back over his shoulder to check on Laurent, he was just a big brother. He winked and grinned. “Alright?”

Laurent nodded and beamed. “There are some benefits to being small. Don’t tell Father, he won’t believe you.” The way he felt about Auguste went beyond hero worship. They were two sides of the same coin. They belonged to each other.

A movement to their right revealed a young buck, a reddish roe deer. He froze in place, watching them, nostrils flaring as he caught their scent. His legs bent to an imperceptible degree, poised to flee, unsure and wary of their presence. The buck was defenceless.

Laurent didn’t know why, but he was grateful that Auguste did not reach for the bow at his back. They hadn’t come here to hunt; it would have been a dissonance, an offence to the shared peace of the moment.

They travelled on, mostly in silence, both lost in thought, the smell of pine and moss filling their nostrils. For the brothers, riding was a delight and an escape, a time to gather their thoughts, mull over ideas or work through a conundrum.

At last they reached the edge of the forest and faced the wide-open plain to the west of Arles. Here the ground was soft and the grasses were kept low from the deer that came out from the forest to graze in the low light of dawn and dusk. White flowers among the grasses bent to the afternoon summer breeze, which also lifted the hair from the back of Laurent’s neck, drying his sweat and cooling his exposed skin.

Auguste turned to his brother. This time his smile was wide and full of teeth, a challenging smile. Laurent felt his stomach clench. “A race then, Mon Petit Sage?”

“Hah!” There was no space between the end of Auguste’s words and Laurent’s shout. He kicked his heels into his mount, a favoured pony named Coquette; she was a lithe and pretty chestnut, enamoured by Laurent and eager to follow his bidding. Coquette leapt forward and Laurent left the cloistered magic of the forest for a broad expanse of brilliant blue sky. Suddenly exposed to the sun, the heat beat upon his head. Coquette swiftly built up speed to a gallop. Laurent loosened the reins, giving the pony her head and leaned his torso forward and low, squeezing his thighs against her flanks.

He never looked back, hair streaming behind; young as he was he was a fearless and competitive rider. He passed their usual finish line, a small cluster of fruit trees and pulled up hard on the reins, wheeling Coquette. Auguste galloped to a stop, dust swirling around him. He arrived a hair’s breath after Laurent had reached the finish line.

Laurent shot one of his childlike arms into the sky in victory. “I win again.”

“I don’t understand it,” said Auguste, shaking his head, his eyes wide. “You are like quicksilver.”

The horses were blowing hard. The brothers dismounted, taking the reins to lead the horses and walked back the final distance to the palace, strolling at a leisurely pace.

It was then that Auguste, treating his brother’s eleven-year-old heart with tender care and seriousness, told him he had two choices.

Laurent could lay himself bare to Triston and admit to his romantic feelings. Of course, by doing this, he opened up a significant risk.

Triston quite possibly did not share his feelings. Perhaps they could even repulse him, especially if the sight of Igerne and her blossoming womanhood held such appeal. The result of having such a discussion could jeopardise their future friendship or end it entirely. Or Laurent might learn that his growing affection was mutual and it could deepen what they already shared, make their time together this summer even sweeter.

His other choice was to say nothing. He could accept Triston’s friendship at face value and enjoy it for what it was.

By the time Auguste had run through the various scenarios and answered, as best he could, Laurent’s many questions, they had arrived at the royal stables. Auguste passed off his stallion to one of the stable boys and readied himself to attend to some duty decreed by their father. He ruffled his brother’s hair before he went. “I’ll visit you before dinner.”

Laurent hugged Auguste around his middle. “Thank you for listening and never laughing at me.”

Auguste looked down at him. “I would never do that. You have the truest heart, Laurent, and you are honourable…when you control that temper and sharp tongue of yours.”

They shared a smile of brotherly understanding and then, Auguste was gone.

Laurent declined the use of a stable boy and rubbed and brushed Coquette himself. Despite his title and position, this was a duty he loved. It allowed him to whisper to Coquette, thank her for their ride and reward her with treats of carrot and apple.

It came down to two choices and a number of possible outcomes. The risk was high.

It seemed that Coquette didn’t know what he should do either.

Laurent was still undecided when he saw Auguste before dinner. Auguste suggested he sleep on it, which would have been a great suggestion, if he could sleep.

Laurent had been given private quarters when he turned ten. They were ornate and beautiful, as most of the rooms were in the palace at Arles. There were three semicircular arches on one side of his bedchamber, open to the gardens below. Through the arches, jasmine and frangipani blossom released their stronger, nighttime scents and streams of moonlight cast soft illumination.

Normally he found the setting restful. But that night, Laurent spent a considerable amount of sleepless time mulling over his choices as he tossed and turned, twisting in the overhung silks that adorned his bed. He stared at the wooden posts at the end of his bedchamber, narrowing his eyes at the intricate carvings, as though they held an answer to his dilemma.

To risk everything. A friendship…or more.

There was really only one solution.

The next afternoon found Laurent waiting by his secret place. He stood by the grove of willows, next to where there was a deep pool. He removed his boots and stripped to the waist. He held his arms out to the side, allowing his slender and pale body to cool, and rotated his head on his shoulders, lifting his face to the dappled light. The damp riverbank was covered in smooth stones of every shade of grey, remarkably uniform in shape and size. They were easy to walk on and rumbled and clacked pleasantly underfoot.

He waited.

Triston didn’t call out as he approached down the mossy embankment, but Laurent knew he was close; the hairs began standing up all over his body. Laurent closed his eyes and strained his ears to the almost imperceptible sounds of laces being drawn and the soft thud of fabric on moss.

When Triston drew alongside, Laurent felt the heat from his body as their upper arms touched. Laurent’s own body had cooled but Triston’s skin was like a furnace, lightly sheened with sweat and he was panting a little. He must have run all the way from the palace. Triston too had removed boots, jacket and shirt.

“My prince.” Triston nudged Laurent with his hip. “What plans for today?”

“I need to ask you something.”

“Of course,” said Triston.

Laurent turned to the side and looked up. There was so much skin, all smooth and honey dipped. Although Triston was taller, they were both jutting ribs and long, stick thin limbs. A breeze blew across the water and Laurent felt his skin pebble, he noticed Triston’s did too. The breeze lifted Triston’s dark hair away from his face but because Laurent was turned at an angle, it blew a lock of his fair hair across his face and into his eyes.

Triston’s hand touched Laurent’s face and pushed back his hair, tucking the errant strand behind his ear. “I am glad you allowed your hair to grow to a respectable length again.” Triston grinned at him. Laurent made himself not react to the touch. Triston was waiting for him to continue.

Laurent blinked, staring at Triston’s open expression and said, “I was wondering,” Triston’s brown eyes held fathomless depths. That mole. That widow’s peak. It was too much.

Laurent turned away, made himself look back across the water and took a deep breath. “How many times could you skip a pebble across the pool?”

Triston crossed his arms over his chest and hummed. After a long moment, “Five. I’m certain of it. Why? How about you?”

Laurent smiled and waved his hand, an elaborate Veretian gesture. “Please. You are my guest.”

On his first try the pebble skipped twice. Triston said a word that would make his mother blush and Laurent giggled. “I chose the wrong shaped pebble is all.”

Laurent’s smile only widened. “Try again. Take all the time you need.”

Auguste had taught Laurent, never go into battle unless you know you have the better position. Laurent had been practising stone skipping all winter.

After about thirty throws, Triston shrieked. “Hah! Did you see it? Four times. _Four times, Laurent._ Okay, that was my best attempt.”

Laurent said, “Very well.”

Triston at last sensed a trap. “Why?” He narrowed his eyes. “How many skips can you do?”

“Six.”

Triston repeated his swear. It must have been a new word he was trying out. His reaction delighted Laurent. But when Laurent finally stepped forward to throw his own stone, his hubris had gotten the better of him. The stone skipped four times.

Triston jumped up and down. “A tie! A tie!”

“I let you have dozens of tries and you would allow me only one?”

Triston heaved a sigh, his shoulders slumping. “Very well. But I know you’ve been practising, Laurent. How about best of three?”

On his third attempt there was no doubt that Laurent had skipped his stone five times but heavy debate whether it had skipped six. The debate ended, as most do between young boys, with a tussle on the riverbed that became dangerously close to the water.

“Stop. My pants are getting wet,” shrieked Triston. “Mother will have me whipped if I go back to the palace with soaking clothes.”

Within moments both boys wore nothing but skin. Of course, faced with the bracing water of the tributary, no matter how warm the day, they stood, toes curled around pebbles, at the water’s edge.

Laurent squared his shoulders and said, “Meet you in the middle.” He ran forward, shrieking like a Vaskian clan warrior, leaping through the shallows until he reached the deeper ledge of the pool at the centre. He dived under.

Not to be outdone, Triston followed in his wake. Soon the boys were in the deep end of the pool, splashing each other, treading water, diving and playing, pushing each other’s heads underwater.

Triston, coming from Mer Montagne, a coastal port, was an experienced swimmer and the stronger of the two. Laurent, younger and smaller, grew tired from treading water but it was not in his nature to admit to weakness or to end a game early.

It was an unfortunate moment that came upon him without warning. A laugh, water splashed into his mouth, and a leg cramp that hit his calf with a piercing pain that robbed him of further breath. Laurent took a lungful of water that burned and then he was sinking, unable to kick his legs and stay afloat.

He remembered little; an image of the prettiness of dappled light and the surface of water above, growing ever more distant as he sunk to the bottom of the pool, about three times his height. Then, darkness.

It seemed no more than a moment before he was coughing up water on the riverbank. His lungs were raw fire and he heard a thin, reedy voice pleading through sobs, “Wake up. Please wake up.” Someone was beating hard on his back.

“Stop hitting me,” Laurent managed to croak.

He was in Triston’s lap and Triston had his front curved around Laurent’s back. “I thought you were dead.”

“I’m not dead. Don’t be ridiculous,” Laurent managed. His voice sounded strange to his ears, rough and coarse. He coughed again. It surprised him how much it hurt, as though tiny, sharp rocks and fiery heat had taken up residence in his lungs.

Triston spoke but his words were fitful, broken by hiccups and emotion. “But you sank to the bottom. I thought you were playing. And then you stayed down. Too long. You didn’t get up. I panicked. And dived.”

Awareness came back slowly. Laurent sat up. He was still in Triston’s lap and upright their faces were very close. They were both dripping wet from the river, hair hanging every which way in stringy ropes. Triston swept a hand through his, highlighting his widow’s peak.

“You dragged me here from the bottom of the pool?”

“Of course.” Triston sniffed wetly and pushed Laurent’s hair back away from his face. He kept his hand there, cupping Laurent’s head just behind his ear. "It's not like you're heavy." He was trying for levity but Laurent sensed the bubble of emotion in his voice.

Laurent said, “It is alright now."

He said it because Triston looked as though he might start crying, even though with the pain in his chest he sort of felt like crying himself. They were both shaking, shivering with cold, despite the summer heat.

"I am well. I am here. Thanks to you." Laurent wrapped both of his arms around Triston and felt Triston tighten his own arms in response. "You saved my life.” Their hearts thumped against each other, a tandem beat, as though one knocked and the other answered through the thin walls of their chests.

“Thank you,” Laurent whispered into Triston’s shoulder, “my friend.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Rinabina](http://archiveofourown.org/users/rinabina/pseuds/rinabina) and Virginia find all my mistakes and make suggestions that help me improve (I hope). They are the best and I write for them, and myself. Any mistakes you might find are because I fiddle too much before I post. I'm a fiddler.
> 
> Thanks for reading. I'd love to hear what you think.


	4. Espionage

During long summer days, there was something decadent about the hours between luncheon and evening meal. Within the palace, adults seemed to move with lower energy. They were less inclined to lose their tempers over trivial matters, such as recalcitrant boys chasing each other, their feet skidding along hallowed passageways. Laces were loosened to alleviate the heat, time slowed and the air drifted like a sentient being, hazy and dreamlike. 

During this time, Laurent was left to his own devices with no official engagements. Being a young boy, there was always some energy that needed burning off. Almost every day, he chose to expel that energy in Triston’s company.

For several days after the near drowning, the boys stayed away from the willows and the pool. It was an unspoken agreement, a sense that it was too soon to tempt fate.

On the first day they climbed a very old and oversized almond tree that grew on the edge of the royal orchard. The trunk of the tree forked and spread wide, like a mystical giant with welcoming arms. Triston scaled one side and Laurent the other. It was early in the season for the almonds to be ripe but Triston was brave, or reckless, and climbed to the outer branches.

Laurent’s foot slid on the upward climb. The soft flesh of his upper arm hit hard against a branch, and he grappled to catch his hold. Tomorrow he would have another bruise to add to the one on his shin; his skin marked so easily.

Hearing Laurent’s grunt, Triston wheeled around in a swift, fluid movement. “Are you alright?” He was already leaning forward, arm outstretched as though he would leap across the fork if necessary.

Laurent’s voice was clipped. “I am perfectly capable, thank you.” He looked at his own stinging hand. One of his fingernails was bloody and torn. He bore it, blinking back the wetness that automatically sprang to his eyes. He wanted Triston to think him a man.

Triston reached the upper branches and began shaking in spots where the leathery almond drupes had begun to split. They thudded on the soft ground and Biette padded over to investigate.

Triston smiled and moved a little lower in the tree. He slid confidently along a horizontal branch, using it like a chair. He leaned back against the trunk, his legs dangling, one arm looped over another branch to balance. Laurent did his best to mimic Triston’s relaxed pose from the opposite side of the tree. 

The air was still. The leaves of the tree provided dappled respite from the harshness of the sun. Laurent felt warm all over and only a little sticky from the heat and the climb. He loosened the laces at his throat. Distant shouts could be heard as soldiers called to each other on the battlements of the castle. Nearby, the clop of hooves and the creak of wagon wheels rolling on a gravel track, probably bringing supplies to the castle. And just below where the boys were perched, the sounds of cracking and popping as Biette’s teeth worked the hard, outer shell of the almonds.

“I wish it could go on like this,” said Triston. His head lolled back against the bark of the tree and his eyes were hooded, almost closed. Laurent noticed a leaf tangled in his dark hair. He wished he were closer so he could use the excuse to pull it out and touch the silken strands, rub his thumb over that glorious widow’s peak.

Laurent said, “Summer you mean?”

Triston stared at Laurent, eyes now wide and serious. He stared for the longest time. “Sure,” he said eventually and turned away.

*

__

__

On the second day, against his better judgment, Laurent led Triston to a secluded spot within the palace. Laurent had never had any interest in visiting this particular place before. He was only aware of because of his keen observation of everything and everyone. 

Behind a pair of enormous stone urns, flush with fragrant flowering orchids, was a tiny alcove that provided an elevated but discreet viewing area, through a small vent, down another level and into the private women’s baths. 

The boys crammed themselves into the tight space and peered down. Triston’s eyes were glued to the narrow opening, his face flushed as he observed glimpses of pale, naked flesh, women of all ages, shapes and sizes, relaxing in the supposed privacy of the baths.

“Oh,” he said in a hushed voice.

Laurent’s eyes were mostly glued to Triston’s face. 

Laurent knew if they were caught, the punishment would be severe. He didn’t think much of the consequences, only of making Triston happy.

It wasn’t too long before Igerne entered the baths in the company of several young women and an older chaperone. As she dropped her robes, Triston finally got to witness her blossoming curves without any barrier between his eyes and her skin. Igerne was pale as milk, confident in her nakedness, even preening before her young female friends. Triston’s eyes were agog, and he dug his elbow into Laurent’s ribs, much to Laurent’s despair.

To Laurent, the dimples in Igerne’s bottom resembled nothing more than a plate of soft cheese. His own eyes were more readily drawn to muscled curves, restrained beneath the armoured shoulder plates of the soldiers who stood watch, part of a special regiment. The soldier’s eyes were covered with black cloth and they were trained to use their ears and other senses to detect danger. The cloth covering only drew Laurent’s attention to the soldier’s mouths. The one on the right was taller, more muscular and had an almost perfect, symmetrical bow to his full lips.

Triston whispered, “Did you see that?” A harder dig into Laurent’s ribs.

“What?” He shifted his gaze.

“Her breasts, when she jumped up and down in front of her friends. Like a perfect, ripe melon.”

“If she were a cow, she’d lose her milk.”

Triston turned his eyes back to the action and shook his head. “I don’t believe you.”

Laurent snorted softly.

Triston said, “It’s because you are younger. You’ll understand attraction. Eventually.”

Trying to make Triston happy was one thing, being condescended to was something else entirely.

Laurent’s face grew hot, he felt his venom build from deep within and erupt. His whisper was a sharp burst of lethal steam. “Stop pretending you are so grown up, _Triston_.” There was a danger that anyone passing nearby might have heard him, but Laurent’s censure could not be contained. He hissed, “You might be older than me but you haven’t changed into a man.”

Triston had turned back to face Laurent, his mouth hanging open in shock at the unexpected outburst.

Laurent said, “You’re as thin and gangly as I. There’s not a hair on your body from your chin to your prick.” Laurent knew this for a fact from their many naked swims. “And you are soft in the head if you think Igerne would be remotely interested in bull pizzle like you.”

“Well,” said Triston, his face now flushed from the opposite of desire. “That was unnecessary.” He frowned and looked down, studying the twisting patterns in the decorative tiles at their feet. Softly, “I was only curious.”

They stayed crouched behind the urns for several more minutes. They were both breathing louder than was wise.

Laurent looked away from the opening and stared at the detailed etching on one of the urns in front of him. The etching depicted a story of men throwing spears to take down a chamois, the champion held aloft by his companions. 

He hated when his temper got the better of him, he knew he could become vicious and horrible. He risked a glance to his left and noticed that Triston also was no longer peering through the opening but staring fixedly at his feet. 

Triston’s lashes were inky black and thick but fairly short and straight. He was chewing on the corner of his lip and his brows were drawn together. Laurent’s heart cracked in two. He exhaled slowly and felt his anger melt away.

Laurent said, “I shouldn’t have spoken as I did.”

Triston’s didn’t look up and his lips hardly moved. “You’re right,” he mumbled. “I wouldn’t know what to do with a girl if one jumped into my lap.”

Laurent leaned into Triston’s side. “I’m sorry nonetheless.”

Triston looked back at him, wide eyed and said, “I’ve never even seen a woman naked before.” 

They stared at each other and the moment stretched. Laurent felt Triston’s breath on his face.

Laurent had to turn away. He concentrated on pressing his fingers on the urn, tracing the etchings. The two boys stayed like that for a long moment, cramped and uncomfortable in their crouched positions. They could hear female laughter and the sound of someone singing. Neither of them looked back down into to the baths.

Laurent chanced another glance to his left and said, “Do you want to pick fruits in the orchard?”

Triston exhaled in a rush. “Sure.” 

They left the hidden viewing area like they were escaping the scene of a crime. In a way they were, both boys felt shame at spying on the unsuspecting women.

“You know,” said Laurent, “During summer in Akielos, the woman walk around everywhere with their breasts unclothed.”

“Laurent,” said Triston. “No more breasts and no more Akielon stories today. Please.”

The royal orchards were vast, long columns of well-tended trees, pruned into rounded shapes. There were pear and nectarine, peach and plum trees, organised into their own neat rows. The layout of the orchards was precise and regimental but each section had its own beauty and was a shaded and cool place to walk. The harvest of summer fruits had not yet commenced, and being boys, they were always hungry. The heavy boughs were much too tempting and the boys stole the odd nectarine (their favourite) and plum.

With juice dribbling down his chin, Laurent said, “I do not wish to repeat what we did today, but if you enjoy espionage, perhaps we can perform a service for the crown prince?”

Triston spat a pit onto the ground and licked some juice from his palm. His eyebrows lifted. “Really? When?”

“Tomorrow,” said Laurent and leaned sticky lips close to the shell of Triston’s ear to whisper their rendezvous point.

*

That was how they came to find themselves, the very next day, in the hour after luncheon, hidden by a vine-bowered arbour in one of the many courtyards outside the royal audience chamber.

“Today my father meets with the council and senior members of the nobility. Auguste was commanded to attend. I think it is to do with Delfeur.”

“Your precious Akielons, rattling their spears again?”

Hotly, “They are not my precious Akielons. I admire aspects of their society, that’s all. I abhor their use of slaves, the whole concept of slavery. But I believe in diplomacy over war.”

“My father says there is no diplomacy with barbarians.”

Laurent rolled his eyes, even though Auguste had told him it was a childish habit. He said, “You would do well to read something of their history. They are a culture of principles, simple in some ways, yes, but-”

“Very well,” said Triston, smiling and holding up his hands in defeat. He had a long-suffering familiarity with Laurent and his historical lectures.

Laurent stretched his neck, determined to maintain his dignity. He paused, and then went on, unable to staunch his enthusiasm. “Perhaps we will hear something when people come out of the audience that will help Auguste to understand the true mood of the court. People are never so honest as when they think no one is listening.”

Reality often reveals itself to be somewhat less than expectation. An afternoon of espionage wasn’t quite the exciting diversion the boys were anticipating.

The meeting with the king dragged. It highlighted a significant problem that one should consider before attempting a future career as a spy. Waiting around for something to happen was painfully boring. 

Triston’s stomach growled. He pressed his hand to his abdomen in a futile attempt to silence it.

Laurent pursed his lips and said carefully, “We just had luncheon.”

“That was _hours_ ago.”

To a boy, any measure of time without food seems a lifetime.

Laurent, ever the forward planner, had anticipated this. He grinned and said, “Here.” And opened his satchel which was crammed with cheese and grapes, cleverly avoiding noisy foods that would reveal their hidden location. 

“Laurent of Vere, you are my hero.” 

Laurent popped a grape into his own mouth. He did it, not because he was hungry, but to mask how every much he was affected by Triston’s grateful smile. Triston's white teeth were a stark contrast to the honey of his skin and the smile so pretty that Laurent felt every one of his internal organs contract in reaction, but he hoped he managed to keep his expression neutral.

Starvation deferred for now, time continued to creep in monotonous increments. The air was still and humid. Under his tightly laced garments, Laurent felt a trickle of sweat traverse the length of his spine. Triston slowly stretched out one of his legs into Laurent's space to stave off a cramp.

It seemed as though they had been perched in their hiding spot forever. 

In what was becoming a repetitious but increasingly pointless habit, Laurent bent one fan of green to peak through a thickly fronded fern. He leaned back and slowly looked to the left, then looked to the right before whispering, “Still nothing.”

Triston was tired, irritated and listless. “Want to give up and play with the hounds?”

Laurent covered Triston’s mouth with his palm. The sound of booted footsteps.

It was Auguste and he was moving fast, his hand dragging in angry frustration through his golden waves. His pet, Michiel was trailing in his wake, struggling to keep up. Auguste said, “If they want me to fight, I’ll fight. I’m not afraid to defend my country, to lead men into battle. But why can we not send a party of ambassadors to…” his voice trailed off as he swept out of the courtyard and down a passageway toward the royal stables.

Laurent realised his hand was still covering Triston’s mouth and his palm felt damp from Triston’s hot breath. He lowered his hand and Triston titled his head to one side, his black brows lifting as though to say _now what?_

Before Laurent could whisper a response, Councillor Herod entered the courtyard, strolling idly. He peered into the centre pond where lilies bloomed and fat koi barely moved. His eyes darted to the closest entrance near the royal audience chamber.

Triston took Laurent’s upper arm and squeezed. Laurent nodded and placed a finger to his lips, eyes fixed on Herod.

The councillor walked stiffly toward a pair of manicured figs in large urns and shook his leg, releasing a long, sonorous fart.

Triston stifled a giggle and Laurent pinched his arm to silence him.

Jehan, a lithe youth and pet to Councillor Herod, entered the courtyard bearing a long staff. “I found it, my Lord.”

“Ah, yes” said Herod, absently. “Very good.”

Councillor Herod was the most senior and respected member on the Veretian Council. Laurent knew that his father, the king, held Herod’s opinion in high esteem.

Herod was stroking his silver beard in a thoughtful manner. “I must say, Jehan, today’s meeting leaves me troubled. Quite troubled indeed.” He rested his hands on his rounded stomach and frowned.

“What can I do to ease your mind, my Lord?”

Jehan had moved so that he was standing close, facing Herod. His face was tilted upward in a gesture that was both deferential but eager to please. Herod smiled and ran the back of his knuckles gently over the much younger man’s face, letting his hand come to rest on the light brown waves of his hair, petting him.

Laurent had never given much thought to the relationship between nobles and pets. He knew his mother did not approve, nor would she keep pets of her own. Laurent knew that youths entered into a pet-noble contract, usually to pay off debt or to enable their family to gain financial betterment. Pets earned gifts for good service, and clever ones gained enough in value to release them from their contract after some years. Laurent knew pets were used for sexual gratification. He was not naive about it; the castle was littered with ornate artwork depicting the act between two or more men, or between women.

Sex was another thing to which Laurent had given little thought, beyond knowing that sex between man and woman was forbidden unless within a marriage and for the purpose of creating children.

Observing Jehan now with Councillor Herod, despite a great many years difference in their ages, they appeared to have an affectionate, perhaps even respectful relationship.

Herod still had his hand resting on Jehan’s hair. He spoke, low voiced, “You are prepared for me?”

Jehan lowered his lashes in a coquettish manner. “Of course, my Lord. Always.”

“Place the screens over the courtyard entrance. I wish to have you. It may relieve the tension I have gained from that meeting.”

Laurent was horrified. This was not what he had intended at all. He had supposed that he and Triston might overhear some piece of honest conversation that would assist Auguste in his dealings with members of the court. He had not intended to be some common voyeuristic observer of…

Laurent glanced at Triston and noticed a furious blush on his friend’s face. They may well be aware of sexual relations between pets and their masters but it was not something conducted before the eyes of children of noble birth.

There was no escape. To announce their presence now would create a scandal. They would have to stay silent and still.

“You will need to start me off,” said Herod. The older man pressed lightly on Jehan’s shoulders and the young man sank to his knees. 

Laurent was mortified, he wished he could be literally any place else…but neither could he look away. 

Behind the screening of ferns, there wasn’t a great deal to see. The men did not appear to be disrobing entirely and Laurent was grateful for that. Laurent’s view was of Herod, eyes closed, one hand stroking the silver strands of his beard, the other resting on top of Jehan’s head. Herod still wore his sombre dark grey clothing and silver medallion, signifying his office.

Of Jehan, Laurent could only see his slender back, he was dressed more discretely that some pets but still in lightly revealing silks. There were emeralds threaded through his hair. Jehan stayed on his knees, and he seemed to be working at the lacings on Herod’s clothing. Then he dropped his arms, bent forward and his head began to bob up and down.

Triston was looking at what was occurring but when Laurent glanced his way, his expression was grave. He shook his head and Laurent felt him reach for his hand.

After some minutes, Herod said, “Yes. That should do. Present yourself.”

Jehan’s next words were hushed and full of unnamed emotion. “My lord, you do me such honour.” He stood and Herod placed a single kiss on his brow before turning him around by his shoulders and pushing him gently to lean forward. 

Herod lifted Jehan’s silks out of the way. There was a partial view of Jehan’s milky thighs and a gnarled, aged hand smoothing the unblemished skin. Jehan placed his forearms on a waist high brass railing that ran around the pool. He was staring at the ferns where the boys were hidden. Even though Laurent knew he was shielded, he felt exposed, his cheeks burning.

“Ah,” said Herod who grunted as he placed one hand on Jehan’s back, the other he used to guide himself as he moved his hips forward.

Jehan moaned in a low voice and Herod began thrusting in a steady rhythm, forward and back.

“Yes,” said Herod, “this is what I needed. Good boy.” Jehan continued to moan encouragement, and his sounds were interspersed with the slapping of flesh on flesh.

To Laurent’s innocent but perceptive eye, something in the act felt off. In the unfiltered brotherly conversations Laurent had with Auguste about desire and sex, it was never quite like this.

Laurent couldn’t put his finger on what was bothering him. He noticed Herod’s movements were becoming faster, more erratic, as though he had reached the moment where he became unaware of anything except for his own driving conclusion. Herod was gripping tightly to either side of Jehan’s hips, breathing harshly, his face was flushed and shined with sweat, and his eyes closed. “Yes,” he said. “Yes.”

It was only at that point, the point of Herod’s no return, Jehan’s expression altered.

The change was so startling that it made Laurent catch his breath.

Jehan stopped moaning, he stopped encouraging. He ceased every action that had previously led Laurent to believe this was a shared experience.

Instead, Jehan’s open eyes became glazed and…empty. He bore Herod’s final frantic thrusts. He just…bore it.

Laurent realised that this vacant look was the first true emotion Jehan had shown since he entered the courtyard.

Everything else had been a farce.

And then it was over, Herod leaned over Jehan’s back, panting, resting. At last he stood back. “Thank you,” he said. “You may continue.”

Jehan didn’t even adjust his own clothing. He turned, fell back to his knees and began lacing his master back into his garments.

Herod chucked the younger man under the chin and said, “There’s a good lad. Clean yourself up and meet me back in my chambers. Be quick about it.”

“Of course, my Lord.”

Laurent didn’t think it was his imagination when, moments later, Jehan exited the courtyard with heavy footsteps.

“I wasn’t expecting that,” whispered Triston in Laurent’s ear.

Laurent found that he couldn’t speak or move. Shock, he presumed it was shock and he was troubled by what he had seen. Not the sex, by the inequity. 

He supposed he had always felt that Vere was superior to Akielos because his people didn’t condone slavery. He tried to make sense of it, but he was unable to shake a deep sense of discomfort. He was only a boy who had read a lot of books. He had been naive.

“Laurent,” Triston said, shaking his arm.

He must have been lost in a daze. Jehan was long gone.

But then the ferns parted.

From above, the Regent’s brown beard peaked through. “What do we have here? A couple of young ruffians up to no good?”

“Uncle,” said Laurent. His face had grown even hotter, if that were possible. “No. We were, that is, what I mean to say is…”

They were in for it. There would be an enormous scandal about this in the court. Auguste would be so disappointed.

“Don’t worry. I won’t tell.” The Regent held out a hand and pulled Laurent up and away from behind the ferns. He leaned low and gave him a conspiratorial wink. “I got up to all sorts of mischief in this palace when I was your age. Just ask your father.”

Laurent’s mind was a jumble but he managed to say, “Thank you, Uncle.” He felt his whole body sag in relief. His uncle didn’t seem mad. He only hoped that meant he didn’t know what he and Tristan had just witnessed.

The Regent said, “Who is your pretty friend?”

“I am Triston of Mer Montagne in Varenne, your Highness.” Triston’s obeisance was instant and elaborate.

The Regent chuckled at the sight. “How delightful.”

Laurent said, “We were only playing, Uncle. Please don’t tell father.”

The Regent’s face was solemn for a moment, but then he twisted his fingers around his lips as though turning a key. “I won’t say a word.” His eyes sparked and his beard parted with an understanding smile. “But perhaps move your games to the parade grounds for the rest of the afternoon. This is a place for serious court business.”

“Yes, Uncle.”

The boys turned, eager to disappear from watchful eyes but they halted as they heard the Regent calling them back.

“Laurent,” he said. “You have not as yet travelled to and visited any of our border forts?”

Laurent felt his eyes grow wide. “No, Uncle. Mother always said I was too young.”

“In a few days I depart, with a small contingent of troops to the forts at Ravenel and Fortaine. I think you are old enough to be separated from your mother’s breast. Perhaps I should suggest to our King that you accompany me as my page?”

Laurent felt a bubble of excitement, deep in his belly. The Regent said, “The time is fleeting between when a boy is _too young_ or _too old_ for first experiences and youthful adventure. What say you?”

“Uncle, I’d be so honoured. Yes. Please ask father.”

“Leave it to me.” The Regent paused to look over the two boys more closely. “Such lovely boys.” His grin was crooked and showed some of the straight, white teeth beneath his glossy beard. “Off you go then.”

The boys turned and fled.

It was only when they reached the parade grounds that Laurent realised Triston was still holding his hand.

They played games with the hounds and rolled in the dirt for the rest of the afternoon. 

For some reason, they never discussed what had happened between Herod and Jehan, even though they both knew it was the first time either of them had witnessed such a thing. 

Laurent was happy enough to put the sordid incident away from his mind. 

Instead, he thought about himself as official page to the Regent, joining him on his first grown-up campaign to the border forts. He decided that he would convince his uncle to take Triston along on the journey as well. The thought of it left him thrumming with excitement.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Virginia and Rinabina make me fix things and use my brain. They are invaluable as friends and betas.


	5. Fight

It was unfortunate how little weight the word of a subject carried in the court of Vere. If their words held greater worth, Auguste knew that the Regent would have been long deposed. Once it became known that Auguste was offering discretion _and_ a willingness to believe, a number of former pets and servants came forward with nervous, whispered confessions. Through stammers and tears, these stories detailed the Regent’s abuses and perversions, and left Auguste sick to his stomach.

There was even some personal guilt. Auguste’s position as the Crown Prince of Vere had probably protected him from falling victim when he had been a young child. Hearing these accounts also legitimised Auguste’s early memories, feeling that apprehensive prickle, the hairs rising on back of his neck, when Regent had looked upon his boyish face with a hunger he didn’t understand.

Then there were reports from other valued members of the royal staff. They had witnessed soldiers from the Regent’s guard, arriving to the Regent’s quarters unannounced in the dead of night; their horses lathered in sweat from a hard and long ride. Not to mention clandestine meetings between the Regent and Councillor Guion. It heightened Auguste’s unease that the Regent was also plotting to destabilise governance in Vere.

The Regent put on a good show, an outwardly honourable persona, but Auguste had witnessed that public mask slip and reveal naked, jealous longing as the Regent sat in court, watching his brother rule from the royal throne.

What Auguste needed was factual evidence. Something beyond a look or the words of servants or pets. A noble willing to speak out, or a piece of writing that revealed the true nature of the Regent’s plans. So far he had nothing. His uncle was too artful to implicate himself directly.

Auguste knew his father, King Aleron, would hear no words spoken against his brother, one of his closest confidantes. King Aleron was blind to the Regent’s clear moral weakness and his underhanded plots, and Auguste was too circumspect to approach his father without indisputable proof.

And how to keep all of this from Laurent? Auguste longed for the day when Laurent would be old enough to share the burden of this knowledge, to help him see a way through to protect Vere. But Laurent was a child, a remarkable and capable one with a stunning mind, but still innocent in many of the ways of the world. Auguste would not allow Laurent to be robbed of the magic and discovery of childhood. Not before his time and not while Auguste was the Crown Prince of Vere.

*

The sawdust broke Laurent’s fall, a little. He lay sprawled on his back, his left leg bent, his arm flung out to one side. He blew a strand of fair hair out of his eyes; it had escaped the topknot he had tied earlier. He looked along his arm toward his sword, just out of reach. Orlant’s blade, despite also being blunt and wooden, had picked open some laces on his sleeve and they trailed, loose. It was a potential obstacle. He would need to be mindful of it, although his mind was not behaving in its normal quick thinking capacity.

He was angry, dangerously so. It was the kind of anger that could lead him do or say something he would later regret.

“That’s the third time I’ve put you on your back, little prince. Perhaps you should stay there and take a nap.”

Orlant was tall, taller even than Auguste, and heavy with muscle. He had a white scar on his top lip, a nick that made him look as though he was permanently grimacing or smirking. Right now he was amused and with his lip lifted on one side, it only enhanced his condescending tone. Orlant spun his sword in his hand with blurring speed. It had the desired effect of making that deep flush of anger erupt within Laurent and spur him to action.

Laurent was half the size and more than half the age of the older man. Using core strength and agility, he rolled backward and leapt, with the consummate ease of a court performer, to a standing position. Then he bent low and hit the pommel of his sword, it flew, turning over itself in the air until Laurent grasped the hilt. His eyes never left his opponent’s face. It was an impressive display and the whole movement was something he knew was beyond Orlant. He was deliberately showing off. He was also showing everything he felt, letting Orlant see his blazing expression.

Laurent released a single breath and resumed first position. “Allez.”

“Wait.” It was Auguste, standing on the sidelines, who had called out. His voice caught as though he was holding back some emotion, and he cleared his throat.

Neither opponent broke his stance, but such was the respect they had for the crown prince, one his loyal solider, the other an adoring brother, they paid heed to the command. Barely moving, they each gave Auguste a raised eyebrow and a terse, side-eyed glance to where he was, critiquing his brother’s sword training against a member of his personal guard.

Auguste’s voice was restrained, “Brother, you must control your mood.”

Laurent closed his eyes and exhaled, long and slow. He smoothed back a damp tendril of hair and nodded.

“If you are angry, do not let your opponent see. It gives them a second weapon. They will prick at your anger until you make a fatal mistake.”

With a great deal of effort, Laurent released the tension in each muscle of his face, schooling his expression until it was completely impassive.

Auguste said, “Better. Now, continue.”

Laurent and Orlant resumed, working through a standard opening series of parries with Auguste moving up and down the training area, alongside the action, encouraging and critiquing in a low voice. To an outside observer, the opponents were vastly outmatched in size, weight and experience. That was unless you studied the intense concentration, calculation and determination on the young boy’s face. And then you noticed that the child had the advantage of intelligence and lithe, graceful movement, and the duel became fascinating.

“Well done,” Auguste murmured, “keeping moving your feet…like that…yes. Excellent prediction of his feint”

Throughout it all, Laurent kept his eyes trained on Orlant’s. He had to look up to do it, his neck permanently stretched. Despite moving his body to one side or the other, ducking or turning, always his eyes remain fixed and his expression unchanging.

Auguste said, “Now.”

With blurring speed, Laurent lunged inside Orlant’s guard and the soldier moved back to avoid the strike. It was really a feint that allowed Laurent to spin around, as though he had the power of flight. Orlant’s unprotected back felt the tap of a wooden sword on his shoulder. Caught off guard, Orlant turned, too late to face Laurent and was met with a wooden blade, pointed level with his unprotected belly.

Auguste released a delighted shout. He was laughing as he moved closer. He clasped Orlant’s upper arm and faced Laurent, his face shining with pride. “That’s the first time you have broken through with one of the guard, little brother. Are you not pleased?”

Laurent wiped his brow but showed no relief or joy. “Of course,” He placed his sword tip to the sawdust. “Shall I go to the baths now?”

“That’s the response you give me?” Auguste studied him, frowning. “You have been practising so hard. You made me promise not to let any of the guard go easy on you. And you did it at last! We should celebrate.”

Laurent’s expression remained unchanged. He bowed his head and said, “Whatever pleases you.”

Auguste’s frown deepened. He turned to Orlant and lifted his head with a command. “Thank you for your service. You may return to your post.”

Orlant paid his obeisance and cut a quick look to Laurent that might have held grudging admiration. He departed the training arena with the inherent straight posture of a soldier.

Auguste waited for Orlant to leave before he turned his eyes on Laurent and said, “You do not need to hide your emotions from me.”

“No.” Laurent’s face remained impassive.

Auguste said, “Something is troubling you. Something beyond Orlant’s taunting in practice.”

Laurent gazed at his brother. There was no hint of what he was hiding behind his eyes.

“Are you hungry? Would you like me to send for your favourite treats?”

Laurent looked down and shook his head.

“Have you had an argument with Triston?”

Another shake of the head, his words spoken to his feet. “Not exactly.”

“Tell me.”

Laurent kicked at some sawdust and released a long breath. Auguste waited, chasing Laurent’s eyes until the boy finally looked up and the restrained emotion released, flooding across his face.

Laurent’s words came in a rush, “I promised we would go to the border forts together with Uncle. But now Uncle says I cannot go and I haven’t seen Triston anywhere, not yesterday and not today. We spend all our time together. He must have heard, and now he is angry with me.” Laurent’s posture slumped. “We were excited. An adventure. Together.” He muttered under his breath, “Mother.”

Auguste made a humming sound and turned away from his brother. He walked to the wall that held a combination of knives, shields, training and fighting swords, the latter made from embellished Veretian steel. He ran his fingers lightly along the blunt edge of one of his favourites, lingering on the carved pommel. He kept his back to Laurent, but his voice was soft, when he said, “You wish to leave me?”

Laurent looked at his brother’s back, the lines of strong muscle held taut as he waited for Laurent’s response. Laurent took the five steps to stand alongside his brother and slipped his hand into Auguste’s larger one. Auguste’s hand, as always, was warm and dry and gave Laurent instant comfort. Laurent’s own hand, enveloped by the larger, looked wan and slight. His brother’s skin, a little weathered and golden from his many outdoor manoeuvres and tours with his guard, a stark contrast. To Laurent, the disparity only exemplified how much he was untested and protected at Arles, trapped. The flush of anger returned. Alongside it was a desperate longing to be allowed to show them all what he was capable of. He was a baby no longer.

Laurent looked up and said, “I never want to leave you.”

Auguste looked down and gave a small smile.

Laurent said, “But I _must_ travel, I _must_ learn, I _mus_ t educate myself on the plight of our people if I am to serve you when you are King of Vere.”

“Laurent,” breathed Auguste and his forehead leaned forward to rest briefly on the wall. He turned and bent on one knee, holding Laurent’s shoulders in his hands. “It’s too soon. You are too young.”

Laurent worked hard to stay calm, to prevent his voice from breaking into a whine. “I’m not that young. Mother speaks endlessly about how special and clever I am. It’s time for her to let go of me a little. She’s too protective.”

“Laurent,” Auguste repeated. He closed his eyes and Laurent waited, hoping against hope for Auguste to make this right, to give him what he needed.

“I could be such a help to Uncle. I ride so well, and I’m fast, you know that. And I would work hard. I promise you I would. Triston too. Please Auguste, I know Mother would listen to you.”

Laurent was sure he could feel his brother’s resolve weakening. Auguste always took his side. He knew if he could convince Auguste of the merits of the tour to the border forts, he would go to their mother and convince her to allow it. She always listened to what Auguste had to say, and Laurent needed this, for himself and for his friendship with Triston. Anyone who met Auguste never doubted his insight, his good sense, his impeccable fairness and wisdom beyond his years.

Auguste still had a knee to the ground, holding Laurent’s shoulders as he looked around the training area. Laurent could tell he was weighing up the pros and cons in his own mind, mulling over Laurent’s pleading tone and reasoning with what he knew would be their mother’s frantic concerns. After what seemed an age, Auguste looked at Laurent’s face, dark blue eyes locked on pellucid blue. He said, “It was not Mother. _I_ was the one who told Uncle you could not accompany him.”

Laurent felt that reveal like a blow, and saw Auguste flinch at the effect of his words. Auguste was _always_ on his side, _always_. He heard himself begin to speak, voicing objections before taking the time to plan or think what he was saying.

Auguste held up his hand. “Hear me, Mon Petit Sage.”

Laurent swallowed the endless arguments that struggled for release. It was very difficult.

Auguste waited until Laurent had control of himself and the flush had faded from his cheeks. He took one of his brother’s hands again into his own.

Auguste said, “I need you to trust me-”

Laurent couldn't stop himself. “I _do,_ with my life.”

Auguste shook his head and gazed up to the rafters of the training arena, as though searching for divine intervention. His voice was rough and bitter. “I have no proof.” He looked down and held his brother’s eyes. “It is my strong belief, should you go on this journey, you would be in great peril.”

“But _Auguste_ , I would be with Uncle. I would be with _family_. What could be safer than that?”

Auguste’s grip on Laurent’s hand tightened. “I would not be there to watch over you.”

“You cannot always be with me.”

“I know. But for now I must. To keep you safe.”

Laurent felt a hundred valid arguments bubble inside him…and yet, Auguste had never stopped him from taking chances before.

“Can you explain to me why?”

“I cannot.”

Laurent flushed. “Don’t treat me like a baby. You never have before.”

Auguste released Laurent’s hand and tucked a damp strand of fair hair back into his topknot. “There are things…things you are too young to understand. I must keep it that way. For a little longer.” At Laurent’s deepening scowl, he continued. “Have you ever known me to slander anyone?”

“Of course not! In all of Vere, you have the most honour.”

Auguste smiled fondly and said, “When I have proof, when you are a little older, then you will know. That is my promise.”

“How much older?” Laurent’s tone was cool, belying the lava that burned his chest.

Auguste, not noticing the signs of imminent danger, released a breath. “I’m not making deadlines with you.”

Laurent’s face became blotchy as the lava erupted. “No. You want to keep me a child. _Just like mother!_ ”

Auguste’s face showed shock at Laurent’s tone. They had never truly argued before, Laurent idolised Auguste too much, and they nearly always agreed, on everything.

It was clear that Auguste was not to be swayed. The combination of unfamiliar discord, and frustration beyond belief, Laurent did the only thing possible. He turned away and ran from the training area, trying to hold back hot tears, and ignoring the pleading shouts at his back.

After running down several passages, Laurent paused to catch his breath. Auguste had not followed him and that made him even angrier for some reason. His fury recharged and he began running again, heading for the exit through the royal kitchens to the courtyard that led to the orchards.

He rounded a corner and ran hard into a person walking in the opposite direction.

It was Triston.

With the breath knocked out of him, Laurent’s natural reaction was to throw his arms around the person he had crashed into to prevent himself from falling over. Then he realised that he hadn’t seen Triston for two days and that the other boy had been avoiding him, fed up with Laurent for ruining their chances of adventure on the tour to the border forts.

Triston, realising who he held in his arms, didn’t push back as Laurent expected. Instead, Triston tightened his hold on the shorter boy. “Laurent,” he said. His soft breath on Laurent’s ear caused Laurent’s skin to pebble in gooseflesh. “I’ve been looking for you everywhere.”

Laurent leaned back slowly, like a person coming to after being knocked unconscious. Their faces were close, Laurent’s mouth inches away from the freckle on Triston’s cheek. Laurent’s hands were on Triston’s waist. Triston’s hands were higher; one resting on Laurent’s shoulder and Laurent felt the warm flesh of a finger moving on the skin of his neck, just above his collar.

Reluctantly, Laurent dropped his hands and took a step back. He straightened his jacket. His breathing was roughened from exertion and emotion, but he forced himself to calm and outwardly show cool reserve. “Really? Whatever for?”

“We’re going! The Regent came to see my father last night. It’s all arranged. We leave for the tour in a week.”

Laurent looked up at Triston’s open expression, the soft fall of his dark hair in straight curtains, his widow’s peak. “We?”

Triston clocked Laurent’s upper arm in an affectionate punch. “Us. You and me, _your Highness_.” He was laughing.

Laurent’s heart sank. “No,” he said. “ _We_ are not.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to my dear friends who read and offer the best advice.


	6. Convince

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's been so long since I posted. I'm hoping to finish this up in the next few weeks. There should be two more chapters and an epilogue. If you are still with me, I'd love to hear what you think if you have the time x
> 
> Thank you, as always, to Rinabina and Virginia for pre-reading, encouraging and giving me ideas.

Laurent rolled over in his bed. Again. He sighed, his mind drifting. He lay on his back, a tangle of silks and coltish limbs. He pressed the backs of his hands into the bedding and slid them in an arc above his head. His thoughts were fixed, locked, remembering moments from earlier that afternoon, with Triston.

Laurent’s hair tumbled loose about his face, his usual practise for sleep. He pushed his hair back, letting his fingers linger in the fine strands on top of his head. A smile teased his lips as he remembered Triston’s hand there. Despite the warmth of the room, he shivered, turned over, and pressed his face into the bedding.

His smile grew, and he hoped.

Laurent hoped with a longing that burned and ached. He hoped that there was still a chance he could join Triston and his uncle on the tour of the border forts. Honestly, he hoped for more than that, more than he could express or speak out loud. These thoughts, and the accompanying twists and flutters in his stomach, were the pangs of first love. Being so young, Laurent didn’t have a name for these feelings, nor did he recognise them for what they were. All he knew was that he felt wretched and wonderful at the same time. He was unable to remove Triston’s features from his thoughts. It didn’t matter whether his eyes were open or closed. It was as though they were permanently etched on the inside of his mind. When he thought about _more,_ he wasn’t even sure what it entailed, only that he wanted it, with Triston.

*

Earlier that day the two boys had collided in a passageway with an impact that had knocked the breath from Laurent’s body. Laurent had been running, fleeing his brother in the training arena, distraught at finding out Auguste was the roadblock, preventing his participation on the tour.

Upon realising he had run into Laurent, Triston seemed excited and relieved to have found his friend. He was so full of exuberance about their impending journey that he had been oblivious to Laurent’s distraught state. Regardless, Laurent was embarrassed at appearing so unhinged, and did everything in his power to get his emotions under control. He feigned an aloof air and spoke with razor sharp precision. “No. _We_ are not.”

They were in one of the back passageways of the palace at Arles. While still impressively made from creamy marble that contrasted with mosaics of hand painted tiles, these passageways were less ornate with an absence of art. Laurent’s mother had encouraged him to use these back ways since he was a small boy. He much preferred these more private passages. They were quieter and less frequented by nobles. There was nothing more disdainful to Laurent than walking passed an alcove along the public passageways and witnessing some noble engaged in a debauched act with a gaudy pet.

The passageway where Laurent had collided with Triston was near the kitchens. Busy sounds and muffled female chatter could be heard in the distance. The air was touched with delicate spices that gave Laurent a sense of familiar comfort but also made him feel a pang of hunger.

“What?” Triston looked hard at Laurent, and quickly judged that the prince was not teasing or joking. Laurent chose his words carefully. He removed all emotion from his voice, and recounted his devastating conversation with Auguste. Triston listened intently and then mumbled a word he wasn’t supposed to use.

Laurent said, “Hush.” Young boys could get a lashing for using such language, even in these back corridors.

 _“We’re going”_ , Triston said, eyes narrowed. “This is _our_ adventure. Together.”

Laurent stayed silent, his breathing still ragged. A deep, frustrated flush stained his cheeks.

The clang of weapons and the stomp of boots grew near. The boys stopped their conversation. Two soldiers, wearing the blue starburst of the crown prince, marched toward them. The shorter of the two, whose open, young face was familiar to Laurent, bowed his head respectfully. “Your Highness,” he said, before making to pass.

The second soldier, notable for a long scar that ran through his lip and across his jaw, also nodded and mumbled an obeisance. He jabbed his partner with a subtle elbow and Laurent saw the trace of a lewd leer cross his face as he stared, pointedly at Triston.

Laurent had no idea what that stare was about, but he didn’t like it. At all. For the first time, Laurent realised that Triston was wearing the deep red of the Regent’s guard.

Laurent raised an imperious eye. “Something to say, soldier?”

The soldier blinked. He was at least a foot taller and ten years older than the not quite twelve-year-old Laurent. His mouth dropped open, horrified at being caught out by the young prince. He halted, snapped his heels together, and bowed deeply. “Not at all, your Highness.”

“Leave us then.” Laurent’s voice was as sharp as a shard of ice.

The soldiers hastened down the passageway and Laurent quickly forgot them. The power of his position could make soldiers quake in their boots, but he was no master of his own domain. He became a helpless young boy again, shoulders slumped with despair.

Triston’s fine, dark eyebrows drew together as he studied Laurent’s face. He spoke in a low voice with defiant fervour, “We will fight this.”

Laurent, despite knowing that without Auguste’s support it was hopeless, felt a loosening in his chest. Triston looked so marvellous and strong and confident. For a second, Laurent was terrified that he might break down into relieved, childlike sobs. He held his breath and drew on his inner reserves to maintain control.

Triston said, “I know that Auguste thinks he is doing what is best, but…he is not king, not yet.” He placed a hand on Laurent’s upper arm. “He does not yet control everything that goes on in Vere.”

Laurent’s heartbeats began an erratic staccato and took flight.

Triston eyes darted to the side. Deep in thought, he said, “The Regent is a great man, and I believe he will listen to me. H-he likes me. He thinks I am clever.”

Without meaning to, Laurent scoffed out loud.

“What?” said Triston, turning to face Laurent. He rolled his eyes. “Not everyone can be _extraordinary_ , but I _am_ clever compared to most. Anyway,” he sniffed. “The Regent thinks I have many gifts.”

Laurent, wanting to appease, offered, “You have _many_ special qualities.”

Triston straightened his jacket. “Well.”

Unable to stay annoyed, Triston’s enthusiasm for his idea reignited. As he spoke, his hands moved expressively, accentuating his words. “I am _certain_ I can convince the Regent, and then it is only a matter of getting him to speak to King Al-…”

Triston paused, mid speech. He was looking above Laurent’s face. A crescent moon indentation appeared next to his mouth. “What is _this_?” One of Triston’s hands had drifted over to rest on top of Laurent’s head. Laurent could feel Triston’s fingers twirling the loosened strands.

Laurent swallowed. “I-I tie it up for sword training.”

“It makes you look…” Triston’s smile widened.

Their eyes met.

Slowly, Triston’s smile dropped away. Laurent’s breath hitched. He noticed a deepening colour on Triston’s cheeks. His eyes dropped to Triston’s mouth and found lips that were slightly parted. He looked back up at Triston’s eyes, feeling a painful yearning. Triston’s head inclined, an almost imperceptible amount, his eyes grew dark, losing their colour.

Then he froze and blinked, once, hard. He dropped his hand, his fingers squeezing into a fist, which he put behind his back. He cleared his throat.

He continued as though nothing had passed, speaking with some dignity, “I am to commence training as the Regent’s page, each evening between now and when we depart. I am certain I can persuade him.” With hubris regained, Triston leaned forward with a smirk, his dark hair brushing his shoulders. “Trust me.”

Laurent affected his own cool reserve. “When do you start training?” He noticed his own voice was only a little breathless.

“Tonight. I am to attend him before and after dinner.”

Laurent stilled. “Have you ever dressed anyone before?”

Now it was Triston’s turn to scoff. “I can tie and untie laces.”

Laurent was thoughtful. “It is different to do it to another person, when you are facing them.” Inspired, he took Triston’s hand and began leading him down a marbled corridor. “Come. You can practise on me.”

Once they were in Laurent’s chambers, and the servants had been dismissed, Laurent felt suddenly shy. Something had shifted between the two boys. Triston and Laurent were still stick limbed, round-faced and childlike, but to be alone together suddenly felt transgressive, even illicit. Laurent shook off the silly feeling.

And yet.

There were moments, and they were happening with greater frequency, when Laurent felt they were on the cusp of something, something they had no name for.

To hide his shyness, and to get on with the task at hand, Laurent stood, affecting a regal air. He tried not to strain his neck as he looked up at the taller boy. “Well? Am I to be kept waiting?” Laurent raised an arm, letting his hand hang limp from the wrist, exposing the ties on his sleeve.

Triston chewed his lip and began loosening the ties, putting the tip of his finger into each loop and drawing out the lace. Rather than make eye contact, which would have been impertinent, his eyes darted around, taking in the opulence of the room, the ornate patterned tiles, the raised platform with the plush bedding, the arched windows that opened to a fragrant garden where birds tittered. In the distance, in another garden within the palace, there was the sound of a lute playing a delicate tune. Triston worked slowly. He hadn’t realised before now what an intimate service this was. It made him nervous.

Triston released a long exhale in a whoosh. “This is nonsense,” he muttered to himself. He turned to face Laurent. His fingers trembled, and he did stumble as he began to untie the laces that began at Laurent’s throat. Slowly he worked his way down. He took a deep breath and slid his hands inside the jacket, resting on the thin cotton that covered Laurent’s shoulders as though to push the jacket away and off.

Laurent’s face was pale and still. “Stop,” he said.

Their eyes met. Laurent inhaled. Triston’s hands were very warm.

“Lace me back up.”

Later, Laurent would remember this moment too. Warm hands on his shoulders, almost in an embrace, eyes locked, faces a breath apart. He remembered every detail on Triston’s face, the straightness of his nose, the jut of his chin, the darkness of his widening pupils, the way his newly cut hair brushed straight and dark, kissing his shoulders. Laurent felt Triston’s fingers tighten imperceptibly before he shrugged his own shoulders and grinned. “Yes, your Highness.”

There were several platters sitting on a narrow table by one wall. They contained a variety of stone fruits and delicate sweets, rolled in crushed nuts and honey. Triston’s eyes kept returning to them with longing.

“Do it again,” said Laurent with pretend haughtiness. “You may indulge your tastebuds when you perform your duties to an acceptable standard.”

Triston grimaced but he continued to tie and untie Laurent’s jacket several times over, and eventually he admitted the practise had been helpful.

Due to the lateness of the hour, there was no time for outside play. Triston was licking honey from his fingers and readying to leave and commence his new duties with the Regent, when a thought distracted him.

Triston said, “Wait. The Regent is much taller than you. How am I to reach, to attend him properly?”

Laurent, teasing lightly, said, “Must I teach you everything? It is easy. You ask him to sit on the bed and you stand between his legs.”


	7. Turn

The very next day, summer deserted the palace at Arles.

Laurent woke, disoriented by the lack of light. Blinking in the shadows, he sat up and drew a loose robe around his slight shoulders. He got out of bed and strolled through a curved archway into his private walled garden. Though the air was heavy, it held hints of fragrance, the last of the lilacs, new bursts of Autumn Clemantis. Rubbing sleep filled eyes, he looked up at clouds that appeared close enough to touch, dark and pregnant.

By mid morning the clouds delivered their contents; rain thundered down, seemingly without end. The shining palace of Arles grew into something dull and somehow less welcome. The mosaic floor tiles lost their vibrancy and became slicked and slippery with muddy soil that ran off from the many internal gardens or from footsteps that trudged in from outside the palace. Fat drops of water, gleaming like teardrop shaped gems, hung from fretwork around windows. The palace smelled of damp earth. Servants lay thick, carpeted runners to soak up the water and prevent fine noble feet from slipping along the passageways.

Laurent was delighted.

Rain meant a delay to the departure of the tour.

Rain meant more time for Triston to convince the Regent and then for the Regent to convince his father, King Aleron.

Laurent knew the reality was that, even if he was allowed to join the tour, he would likely be pampered, as the prince he was, every step of the way. Yet, he still daydreamed about living rough, sleeping under the stars, going without daily baths, and riding, riding hard, chasing an ever changing, ever widening horizon. He pictured himself, loosening the reins on his pony, Coquette, whooping out loud and allowing her to gallop free along the plains. He daydreamed of all of this with Triston at his side, sharing every wild moment together.

More than any of these things, he dreamed about his first kiss. How it might happen. Would it happen soon, in the palace, or on the long ride to Ravenel? What would it feel like? He imagined the look on Triston’s face and his heart raced. Triston never spoke to him anymore of Igerne and her breasts or her curves. Even though nothing had been explicitly said, there had been enough charged moments between them that Laurent was almost certain Triston felt the same as he. Almost. He doubted himself, he doubted every sign, as much as he believed them to be true.

Laurent dreamed about holding Triston’s face between his hands and seeing acceptance and eagerness reflected back. He saw with his mind’s eye, the way they would draw close, leaning in to study every detail on each other’s face. Then, the soft press of lips and the warmth on his skin from Triston’s exhale. What would Triston taste like? What would he taste like to Triston? They would smile at each other, and press close, and Laurent would feel Triston’s heart pounding against his own.

He wondered who would make the first step. He wondered if he was brave enough to reach out and touch, leaving Triston in no doubt about his desires. It would mean exposing his innermost self. He wondered how he could feel elated, eager, sick and terrified, all in the same moment.

The rain downpoured in sheets and torrents for the best part of a week. The tour’s departure was delayed by a fortnight as they waited for the roads to dry out enough for the wagons.

Laurent was so preoccupied with his thoughts and dreams, that his natural skill, one of acute observance of everything, deserted him. He didn’t notice the changes in Triston, or if he did, he misread them, until it was too late.

It was almost the end of the first week after Triston’s promise. The rain was unrelenting, so the boys spent time together in Laurent’s private solar. Despite the greyness of the day, there was enough natural light for reading. Laurent read aloud, Triston’s favourites from the old tales, full of mystic beasts, bravery and adventure. The boys lay side-by-side on one of the reclining couches, the large tome resting across both of their thighs. Triston listened with rapt attention, carefully turning the gilt pages before Laurent could break the rhythm of the telling.

“I do so enjoy the way you do different voices,” said Triston at the end of a particularly thrilling tale about a centaur and a magical forest.

Laurent shrugged, embarrassed and ridiculously pleased.

“Can you read one with romance next?”

Laurent kept his eyes on the book and bit the inside of his cheeks to stop from smiling. “Of course.”

Halfway through the story, Laurent noticed that Triston was gazing out of the tall windows, watching the cypress trees bend in the wind, their leaves beating against the panes, along with the lashing of the rain. Laurent bit back a second smile.

Later, Triston interrogated Laurent endlessly with questions about his uncle. He wanted to know what Laurent knew of his likes and dislikes, his views on palace politics, on trade and neighbouring provinces, even the qualities he had favoured in his previous pages and how long they had remained in his employ. Laurent, who really only had a child’s knowledge on most of these matters, did the best he could and could only be impressed at how determined Triston was in achieving their plan.

At last, talk between them quietened and the air took on that familiar charged sensation. Laurent lay so still, sure that Triston was about to make the move that would change everything. Laurent wanted to encourage him, but innocence and shyness and fear of the unknown left him frozen, terrified of doing or saying the wrong thing. They were both avoiding eye contact, instead gazing ahead into the shadows of the room.

“Have you ever…” Triston began.

“What?” said Laurent, and winced at his too eager reply. He dared a quick, side-eye glance.

Triston was frowning, the blush evident, even beneath his honey toned skin. “Has anyone…?”

Laurent’s mouth opened but he found himself unable to speak.

“Never mind,” said Triston. “It’s silly.”

All the muscles of Laurent’s insides were held taut, but because he was not brave, the moment drew out, longer and longer. Laurent felt the charge between them dissolve and turn into something awkward.

He was a failure and a coward. When he couldn’t bear the silence any longer, he changed the subject. “Are you making progress with Uncle? Have you convinced him to speak to Father about me?”

Triston released a heavy exhale. To Laurent, that breath was a release of frustration and regret.

“It is not so simple as that,” said Triston. 

Triston's manner changed and his body altered, straightening in the seat. Laurent blamed himself for the almost challenging tone that crept into Triston's voice.

“The Regent is burdened with great matters of state. When he comes to me at night, he needs to be relieved of the stress of the day. It is my honour to provide him with my service and make him easy in his mind.”

It was at the last statement that Laurent couldn't help himself. Triston's pompous crowing demanded to be teased. “By tying and untying laces? By brushing lint from his jacket?”

Triston turned to face Laurent, narrowing his eyes. “He asks me about myself. He likes me. He thinks I am…” Triston noticed Laurent’s smile and his expression shuttered. “Never mind. You are too much of a child to understand.”

Laurent felt those words like a slap. There was no greater insult to his precocious, burgeoning intellect.

“A child.” The change in Laurent’s tone chilled the very room. “How preposterous that one such as _you_ should consider me a child. I read better than you. I ride better than you, and I am vastly superior with the sword.”

Triston stood and walked to the windows, his hands in fists. With his back to Laurent, he said, “Yes, my prince. You are so perfect.” Suddenly he turned, eyes blazing. “Except the Regent prefers _my company_. _Mine._ So what do you make of that?”

Laurent was taken aback by the virulent passion in Triston’s voice, but rather than appease, he sniped, “Perhaps if my company is so disdainful, you should leave?”

Triston's eyes went round and his mouth hung open as he let those words settle on him. He squared his shoulders and lifted his chin. “I believe I will.”

And with that, Triston swept out of the solar. Almost straight away, Laurent regretted the harsh boast of his words, but he was too full of pride to chase after his friend and apologise.

He put away the book of childish tales, and picked up an even more ancient volume, something historical and detailed, something to challenge and distract his mind.

It was hopeless. He couldn’t concentrate, not even a little.

He paced the solar, frustrated at not being able to go outside and ride off this feeling. When he was very small and prone to sudden fits of anger, it was Auguste who suggested that he jump on a pony and canter or even gallop, rather than lash out with his tongue at the nearest human target.

Laurent stared gloomily at the ground outside his window. It pooled and swirled with gathering rain. The only things moving around outside today would be leaves and sticks, detritus floating along in the flooding run off. Although the room was dry and comfortably warm, it felt cavernous and much too quiet.

Most of his life there had been few children around him close to his age or station. He was good at amusing himself and at ease with his own company.

It was a shock to realise that nestled among everything else, he was profoundly and utterly lonely. He had grown accustomed and reliant on Triston's companionship. There was a dull ache inside him that the grey clouds were doing nothing to appease. His gaze returned, time and again to a jacket, tossed across a low couch. Triston had left it behind in his haste to get away from Laurent. The jacket was in the Regent’s colours, a dark red velvet. Inexplicably drawn, and in a moment of pure feeling, Laurent picked it up, pressed it against his face and inhaled deeply.

There was a delicate tinkle, announcing a presence at the entrance to the solar. Laurent lowered the jacket and his heart leapt. He turned, only to see a servant standing with a tray of refreshments. His blistering expression made the servant blanch and falter. The tray rattled a little harder as the servant bowed, beating a hasty exit.

Laurent dropped the jacket back to the reclining couch and refused to touch it, no matter how much his fingers itched to pick it up, press it again to his face, and conjure its owner to return.

Much later, without ceremony, one of the Regent’s servants came to collect the jacket. There was no word from Triston.

There would be no words shared between Laurent and Triston for three days.

The rain finally eased to an occasional shower. The grounds surrounding the palace were treacherous with new ruts and thick, slippery mud. The banks of the Grand Lac had breached, and the water flowed too fast through the tributaries, full of debris. It was deemed unsafe for anyone from the palace to venture close.

Conditions were also unsafe for riding, unless you wished to risk laming your horse. Laurent would never do that, but after a week he was restless and tired of breathing the closed air of his rooms, despite the interior gardens. He longed to rest his eyes on an expanse of sky.

The palace orchards, with their loose gravel paths, were always the first place to drain of water and dry out.

Laurent ventured there, breathing deeply the air that was washed clean from the rain, and felt weak sunlight on his face, straining from behind sporadic cloud cover.

It was good to be outside.

At the far end of the orchards was a small rise, a hill that overlooked a forested valley. Sitting there on a flat piece of rock, facing the valley, was Triston.

Laurent was overcome with a stirring need to make amends, apologise if he had to. He hated their occasional arguments and he longed to spend time in Triston’s company. He had not heard any news, but Triston must have been close in achieving his goal of convincing the regent to speak to the king on Laurent’s behalf.

Laurent ran, but kept his footsteps light, wanting to surprise his friend. He needn’t have bothered because Triston was oblivious to anything but his own thoughts.

Laurent touched him lightly on his lower back. “Good morning,” he said.

Triston leapt to his feet, an agonised, animal-like noise escaped him, “No!” he cried. He turned, and before he realised it had been Laurent who touched him, his eyes were wild, fearful and confused.

Triston shuttered his expression and scrambled for a modicum of decorum, standing and offering a short bow. “I ap-pologise, your Highness.”

“Whatever is wrong, Triston?”

“N-nothing,” Triston said. His breathing was ragged and he was still struggling for control. Laurent noticed dirty tear tracks on his cheeks. Triston, self-consciously, scrubbed at his face to remove the evidence.

Laurent was mortified, overcome with guilt that he had been the reason for Triston’s unhappiness. He touched the older boy’s upper arm in an act of contrition and noticed how Triston tried not to flinch.

Laurent said, “I behaved like a pretentious ass the other day. I’m sorry for it.”

Triston said, “What?”

“Our argument at my solar. I would have apologised earlier if I realised how much it had upset you.”

Triston released a disbelieving breath and moved his arm back a fraction to escape Laurent’s touch. “I assure you. Our childish disagreement is the furthest thing from my mind.”

Laurent felt as though he had walked into a game where he didn’t know any of the rules. He said, “What are you talking about? Has something gone wrong with my uncle?”

“Your uncle.” Triston repeated, staring down. His voice held bitter reproach. “If only you or I could understand the ways of the world of men.”

Laurent bristled a little at that. “Try me. Tell me what is bothering you. Are you worried you won’t be able to convince uncle to let me join the tour?”

“The Regent.” Triston said in a voice Laurent didn’t recognise. “You don’t even know him.”

Laurent began, “What-”

“Give me a moment,” Triston interrupted.

Laurent looked again at his friend. Triston was flexing his hands, spreading his fingers wide and then clenching into fists, again and again. His breathing was still forced, laboured. Then, as though a new realisation had come to him, his manner changed completely and his shoulders dropped.

“Sit,” said Triston, indicating to the flat piece of rock.

Laurent said, “I believe I will stand.”

“As you wish.” Triston reached down to pick up a small, round pebble, which he tossed, high in the air, into the valley below. “You will learn in time. The path to growing up can be hard and confusing. He has chosen me. I have chosen too. So, it cannot happen.”

“What cannot happen?”

Triston picked up another pebble, but instead of throwing it, he studied it, turning it over and over in his fingers. “We-um, the Regent will not entertain the concept of another page.”

Laurent felt something shift inside him. “But, you _promised_ me we would fight this. You said you would convince him. You told me not to give up.”

“It is not so simple as you would imagine. And he, he has become reliant on my service. He wishes for no other.”

“What are you talking about? You barely know him. He’s just some old man. I am your _friend._ ”

“I would not expect someone like you to understand.”

“What does _that_ mean?”

Triston inhaled and let his breath release in a rush. Laurent realised that he didn’t recognise the tone Triston was using. It was almost…dismissive. Of him. A Prince of Vere. Even though Triston’s behaviour was out-of-character and odd, he felt bile rise in his throat, along with a sense of…

“You have betrayed me.”

Triston blinked and shook his head. “I knew you would not understand. This is nothing more than a childish temper tantrum. A desire to have your own way.” Triston pursed his lips. “I did try, but your service is not required on this tour. I am sorry to disappoint you, but the Regent needs _me_.” Under his breath, he murmured. “He is devoted to me.” His eyes narrowed on Laurent. “Something has passed between us that is beyond your comprehension.”

Laurent’s mouth opened but he found he could not speak.

“I have appreciated your friendship, your Highness. But the time has come for me to move on from childish things. My path is set.” He bowed stiffly. “I must beg your leave. My master needs me.”

Laurent came back to himself, moments later and realised he was shaking. He was alone, standing next to the flat rock, staring out over the treetops. He grabbed a bunch of gravel into his fist and flung it wildly, into the valley. He saw the tiny stones soar away from him, as he felt everything he had believed to be true disappear from view.

Auguste and Queen Hennike believed they had a clearer understanding of what had happened, but thought Laurent was too young to hear it. They attempted to comfort Laurent to no avail. They were distraught yet powerless at Triston’s fate and ached to see Laurent’s heartbreak. It robbed the young prince of his exuberance for some time.

It was several months before the letters started coming, and then they continued, persistent and frequent. The letters bore Triston’s hand and his family seal. Laurent set each one alight over an opened fire. Unopened. They unnerved him so much that he requested his servants destroy them rather than present them to him in the first place.

For this reason, Laurent was unaware when the letters became less frequent.

The following summer, the Regent returned to Arles, without Triston.

Laurent spent every available moment with Auguste, in sword training or riding or simply to share thoughts and plans for the future. When royal duties took Auguste away, Laurent kept to himself, the palace dogs or his mare, Coquette, his only other companions.

Soon after, Queen Hennike fell into a malaise and developed a ferocious fever, an unusual occurrence for the warm summer months. She slipped in and out of delirium but called repeatedly for her sons. They came and knelt on either side of her bed, each holding one of her hands. Auguste murmured soothing words that seemed to calm her, and in a lucid moment she said, “Remember all you have learned. Honour and love for family and crown above all. Always look out for one another.”

She died with her younger son laying across her wasted body, weeping. Her older son, his own tears drying on his face, still held one of her pale hands in his golden grasp, his other hand pressed firmly on his brother’s back in steady, unwavering comfort.

Auguste whispered in a choked voice, “You're not alone. I am here with you, brother. Always.”

News of the death of the queen spread throughout the kingdom. Along with sorrow, it brought fear for the now weakened alliance between Vere and Kemp. Laurent’s servants, having been given no new orders, destroyed Triston’s letters when they started arriving with renewed urgency.

It had been Laurent’s first attempt at true friendship. It had been the first time his heart had been touched by another, outside his immediate family. It had been the first time he had allowed himself to be vulnerable, to hope that his feelings were reciprocated.

He judged the entire experience an abject failure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Get you some friends like Rinabina and Virginia. They pre-read, they point out your silly mistakes, and make you think of better ways of putting things. Then they encourage you to keep posting and sharing, because writing makes you happy.


	8. No Intimates

_Several years later…_

All around Laurent the sounds were jarring and unfamiliar. He recognised them for what they were: preparation for war. The clang of metal, weapons being drawn, tested. The sharp cry of steel against stone as blades were sharpened. The whipping crack of silk pendants and canvas tents, beating against the blustery afternoon winds of Marlas.

There was hardly any chatter in the camp, soldiers kept silent company with their thoughts, preparing for the end of all things but praying for survival, glory and another day of living. The air was ripe with the acrid smell of male sweat. Laurent had quickly learned not to walk near the trenches behind the battalion tents, where men tried to dump their fears as they evacuated their bowels, loose not from poor cooking, but from pre-battle nerves.

Laurent was not worried. Although he did feel young and out of place, desperate to be part of this war, to make Auguste and his people proud, to be accepted for his contribution, to lose the titles of _green_ and _untested_. 

He wasn’t worried, perhaps because his method of coping was to read. He sat at a desk in the tent he shared with his brother. His new armour lay prepared and gleaming on a reclining couch as he read a historical account of Vere’s many victories, turning the pages with care. It was considered folly, to bring a provision of books to war, but Auguste had known his brother would find comfort and guidance in their pages, and he had ordered a modest allocation to the war wagons. 

Laurent kept his back to the tent flap, it allowed him to concentrate and shut down his overthinking mind, even though it went against Auguste’s advice to have an eye on whomever might enter. He felt movement and a breeze, yet he turned only an ear.

“Your Highness.”

There was…something in that voice. It was not entirely familiar but something in the tone sent a tingle down Laurent’s spine. The skin on his neck pebbled. He did not respond.

The voice lowered, “Laurent.”

It was the height of disrespect. No one was allowed to call him by his private name, only members of his royal family. He had no other intimates. Laurent pushed himself to a standing position and swirled on the intruder, ready to unleash a verbal vivisection. 

The last few years had changed him a great deal. He had always been taller but he was at his full height now, over six feet. He was in that phase, clearly not a boy, but not yet fully mature. He was all sharp angles, lithe muscle, and strong features. His skin had darkened and coarsened, as much from age as from considerable exposure to the outdoors. He had two visible scars. A thickish, jagged white line that divided one of his dark brows and a thinner one, still pink and puckered that reached almost a quarter of the way around his neck. It only made him more handsome, even rakish. His hair was shorter than Laurent remembered, cut for battle so as not to fall across his eyes. He was wearing the uniform of an infantryman, no armour or helm. 

The eyes were the same, unfathomable brown swirls. He was not smiling, so Laurent could not be sure if the dimple had survived adolescence. Most startling, he was wearing the starburst pattern of the crown prince. Auguste hadn’t mentioned it. Perhaps he didn’t realise that Laurent would want to have known, so absolutely had he shut himself off from Triston after that third summer.

The terrible words he had been about to deliver died and lay curled inside Laurent’s mouth. Instead, he took in a sharp breath. He had steeled his heart for so long without even realising it. He had believed that he only needed intimacy and affection from within his family. It was only in this moment that he realised he had suppressed the raw wound that had been the loss of Triston in his life.

Laurent’s first instinct, curtailed by a sheer force of will, had been to step forward and throw his arms around the older boy, his heart opening of its own accord, yearning for their past friendship, any friendship for that matter. The space between them, perhaps six paces, seemed an unbreachable void and he remained, frozen in place.

They had been staring at each other, taking in the changes, realising how much time had passed since their last meeting.

“I wanted to see you…before…” Triston swallowed and looked down, then over his shoulder. A line appeared between his brows. He looked up. “We are about to be called to the front lines. You need to know…”

Laurent began closing the distance between them without even realising it. He placed a hand on either of Triston’s upper arms and felt firm, hard muscle beneath the fabric. Laurent said, “It is good to see you.”

They stared at each other.

Laurent said, “I should not have become so angered-”

“You have to know, you _must_ know, it was not what you thought. I did not betray you-”

“I never read the let-”

“Of course, I realised-”

They were talking across one another, desperate to get the words out and not hearing what the other had to say. After a few moments of this they both stopped and smiled shyly.

“Let me go first,” said Laurent.

“Begging your pardon, your Highness, there isn’t time.”

With princely arrogance, Laurent continued, unabated. “Perhaps I did not behave to the best of my ability. I was immature. Jealous-”

Triston sighed loudly in frustration and blurted, “Please. _Laurent._ None of that matters now.”

Laurent stopped speaking and took a step back. His expression cooled. 

Of course. The loss of friendship would not mean as much to someone for whom friendship came easy, and a royal friendship only sought for the favour it could garner.

Laurent could not deny that it had always been more than friendship to him, but at a more mature fourteen years, he realised it had only been a crush, a stupid first crush.

None of what had happened between them mattered, was that what Triston had said? Laurent lifted his chin and straightened his posture, determined to stop making a fool of himself. He would let the boy make his statement, whatever it was, and leave.

Triston noticed the change in Laurent and did something terrifying and bold. He stepped forward and placed his hand on Laurent’s cheek. “You misunderstand me.”

Laurent was robbed of the ability to speak.

Triston said, “I have missed you terribly, but there is something else, something of utmost importance I came to tell you.”

Nothing existed other than the feel of Triston’s calloused fingers on his face. His skin heated under the touch. No one dared touch him in such a manner. 

He liked it.

Triston too, seemed to lose his train of thought. “It was real, what we felt,” he whispered. “It was young and pure. I remember everything.”

Laurent didn’t know enough to mask the raw longing that shone on his face. One of Triston’s cheeks lifted with a small grin and there it was, the dimple, intact. Triston moved his fingers through Laurent’s hair. “You are even more beautiful now than when we were children.”

Laurent said, “I am not a child any longer.”

Triston’s fingers curled into Laurent’s hair, the slightest pressure, encouraging Laurent’s face to move even closer. Laurent noticed that the short black lashes were the same. They were close enough that Laurent could feel their body heat mingling. Their eyes were locked on one other. Laurent felt a little drunk, ablaze with a sudden hunger he didn’t understand or recognise. Triston’s eyes dropped to Laurent’s mouth. They were close enough to share breath, if either of them had been breathing. Laurent knew, finally, he was about to experience this. His tongue darted out to wet his lips.

“Soldier!” commanded a deep voice from the entrance to the tent. “Did you not hear the call? You are being summoned to the line.”

Laurent’s eyes were blue flames of ice. He glared imperiously over Triston’s shoulder. “Leave us.”

“Begging your pardon, your Highness. Prince Auguste is about to address the troops. We are to assemble, immediately. Get into your armour, soldier.”

Triston’s grip tightened. “I have to go. Listen to me. _Please._ ” His voice was urgent. “You must be wary. There are plans afoot, you cannot trust, even those you might not expect, within Vere. Don’t allow yourself to be alone. Stay close to Auguste.”

“Of course, but-”

“Now, soldier!”

Triston’s eyes were pained. He looked again at Laurent’s mouth, then back at his eyes. He hugged him fiercely. Before Laurent could return the embrace, his arms were empty and he was staring at the swaying flap of his tent.

Laurent didn’t understand what Triston was trying to tell him. He would seek him out, after today’s battle and demand that he be less obtuse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next three chapters are short but I thought they warranted separation. I will post daily to the end. The final chapter is an epilogue.
> 
> Thank you for reading x


	9. Battle

It was later, much later that evening, when Auguste returned to their tent. The battle had been brutal and bloody. Heavy losses were sustained on both sides. Laurent had fought, but Auguste had sent him to the back of the lines, flanked by members of his personal guard, Orlant and Balbus. Laurent suspected that the soldiers, who dwarfed him in bulk and height, had been ordered to protect the young prince first, and slay Akielons second.

It didn’t matter. There had been a moment where there had been no one beside him, soldiers all around engaged in fierce one-on-one fighting. The discordant clash of swords and shields, agonised screams from men and beast, as horses too were struck or felled. It was deafening and chaotic. 

In the midst of the fray, he came face to face with an Akielon soldier, alone. 

That the Akielon was taller and broader than Laurent was no surprise, everyone on the battlefield was. Beneath the helm, Laurent saw the dismissive narrowing of eyes as his enemy misjudged the quality of his opponent. Laurent bested him in fewer than a dozen strokes. He pushed his blade, deep into the Akielon’s belly, and found it much harder than he imagined. As their bodies drew closer, he watched those deep brown eyes through the slit of the helm, and saw surprise and dismay. He watched as life’s blood drained, felt it gushing warm across his hand and wrist as it splashed into the mud at their feet. The eyes grew dim and vacant. As the soldier fell, Laurent tumbled with him to the ground. 

The Akielon lay unmoving on his back, Laurent kneeling above him, breaths heaving, his sword still embedded. Compelled by an unnamed emotion, Laurent tore the helm from the Akielon and was met with a grey, dead face. His dark curls were flattened by sweat, blood and his helm. Despite his size, he could only have been a few years older than Laurent, perhaps not even that. A future snuffed out, forever, by Laurent’s hand, a hand sticky with thick, drying blood. 

Laurent turned to the side and was violently ill. Someone grabbed him under his arms and dragged him away, to safety.

Auguste had heard about it, of course. He stumbled wearily into their tent, covered with grime and death from his own battles. In silence, he removed his armour and stripped without ceremony. He used his undershirt and a pail of warm water to wipe his body. There was no time for proper bathing. A servant came and discreetly took everything away, to prepare it for the next day.

At last, wearing a fresh, loose shirt and trousers, Auguste knelt before Laurent who was sitting on a low couch, white-faced and motionless. Auguste put his arms around his brother. “You have served our kingdom with honour. I have nothing but pride for you in my heart.” Laurent began to shake but Auguste only held him tighter. “It passes,” he said. “But I pray that you never need get used to it.”

After a long time, Laurent composed himself enough to lean back and ask, “How are we faring?”

“We will be victorious, I am certain. But. There is something else I need to tell you. Something hard.”

Laurent raised his eyebrows, letting his brother know he was composed enough to hear it.

That was when Auguste explained that Triston had been counted among the day’s casualties. 

The shock was deep. Laurent did not know why he had never considered that this could be a possibility. 

The suddenness of the loss stopped his shaking but his empty stomach began clenching painfully in discomfort. He wept more freely than he could ever remember. The tears were bitter with regret and shame for a lost friendship that could never be recovered. A friendship that never had its chance to be…more.

Auguste simply stayed and comforted Laurent through his tears. There must have been innumerable tasks demanding his attention, but he never gave the impression that he needed to be anywhere other than by his brother’s side.

After much time had passed, and Laurent’s tears had subsided, they lay side-by-side on the crush of silks and cushions that were Laurent’s bedding, gazing at the tapestries that adorned the inside of the tent, holding hands.

One of the challenges of war was that there was never enough time to grieve before the next brutal task must be faced.

Auguste said, quietly, “I have been called out to fight the Akielon heir, in hand to hand combat.”

Laurent said, “Kastor or the true heir, Damianos?”

“Damianos, of course.”

Laurent’s natural pragmatism rallied. He spoke slowly in a voice still thick with tears, “You are older and more experienced, the greatest of all our fighters. You will take him. Victory will be ours.”

“Perhaps,” said Auguste, thoughtfully. “But at what cost?” He raised himself on one elbow and met Laurent’s gaze, his expression fervent. “Consider this. What if I was to take him, to win, but then to show mercy? Do you think negotiations, even now, could see our nations exist, going forward, without more bloodshed?”

Laurent rolled over and onto his knees, facing his brother. “Auguste! This is your moment. The Akielon way of life is deceptively simple, it seems barbaric to us, but it is steeped in ancient culture. They define the essence of honour. I have heard good things of this young prince. He will listen to reason, and the two of you will use this moment to bond and show true leadership.”

Overwhelmed at his brother’s diplomatic brilliance, Laurent threw his arms about his neck and said, “Leave the old men to their bloodshed and battles. Here’s to true kingship through intelligent and fair negotiations. Our future begins tomorrow.”

Auguste returned the embrace and pulled Laurent back to meet his eyes. “I take it my plan meets with your approval, Mon Petit Sage?”

Laurent nodded, his mind moving forward. “I have even drawn up border lines that are arguably favourable to both our nations. You could use them to begin your negotiations.”

“I could indeed,” said Auguste, his smile widening.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Worst foreshadowing ever.


	10. To Lose

So much hope. It had been a future brimming with promise.

By dusk of the next evening the world had turned upside down.

Auguste’s body was brought into the tent, carried on the shoulders of four of his best men. His armour had been removed and he was cloaked in blue and starburst.

The soldiers wore their brokenness in different ways. 

The most loyal, Jord and Orlant were positioned in front, supporting Auguste’s head and shoulders. Auguste’s golden hair hung down between them in waves. Bearded Jord, stoic to a fault, wore makeshift bandages tied around his left arm and leg. He winced with each step, but seemed otherwise oblivious to his injuries, even though the bandages seeped dark blood.

Behind them was the strong but shy, Balbus. Balbus had been a recent recruit to the Prince’s Guard. He had come to Arles fresh from being raised on a dairy farm in Toutaine. He was used to hard physical labour and a simple life. His trusting nature and mild stutter had made him an easy target among the troop. But Auguste had seen something honourable and pure in Balbus, and had taken him under his wing. The troop’s tormenting had halted instantly. Now, standing at Auguste’s right hip, shoulders steady as he carried his prince, Balbus wept freely.

The fourth soldier Laurent didn’t know well. He was a grim-faced, red-haired youth called Amis. He was splattered with mud from head to foot but there were dried tracks on his freckled face from earlier tears. Amis flashed Laurent a bitter glance. Laurent was sure he knew why and he could only silently agree. 

If one of the princes of Vere were to die, it should have been Laurent, not Auguste. Auguste was tall and strong, a born leader, honourable and brave. He was the king meant to lead Vere into a bright future.

Of the four men, Orlant appeared the least physically damaged from the day's battles. But it was in Orlant’s expression that Laurent saw his own reflected back. Blankness. Utter shock and disbelief.

The soldiers lay Auguste on his bed with a tenderness that made Laurent’s breath catch in his throat. He released a single, painful noise. Jord closed his eyes at the sound, calling on his own inner reserves so as not to react. It was the only sound anyone made. Laurent dared not speak. He nodded to thank the soldiers and to dismiss them. They seemed dazed, and as they walked out, Jord put his arm around a still sobbing Balbus.

It was incomprehensible.

Laurent was an orphan. He had just returned from seeing his father lying in state in the tent of the king. 

The _former_ king. 

But to see Auguste, his pallor grey, his eyes open and unseeing. There was no denying it. Auguste was gone forever.

In the course of a single day, Laurent had lost everything and become heir to an empire.

And yet.

Once they were alone, Laurent approached his brother’s body. He touched his hair, his cheek. Unable to stop himself, he shook Auguste's shoulders. 

“Auguste, _please,_ ” he begged in a desperate whisper.

It was a childish hope, but for a moment he believed it might have been possible to bring Auguste back by sheer force of his will. There would be no response, not ever again. Laurent stretched his arm across Auguste’s chest and lowered his head.

Servants entered respectfully at drawn out intervals, but Laurent would take no food or drink, or any interruption.

“Leave me with my brother.” It was all he could say.

After several hours, Laurent’s patience for being disturbed had exhausted. He remained lying across his brother’s bloodied corpse, unwilling to move forward in any way. The next servant who tried to suggest that Auguste’s body needed to be cleaned and prepared was met with an unleashing of bitter invective.

No one dared enter again, until at last, the Regent came. 

He spoke softly but firmly. Somehow ingrained respect and deference to family finally made Laurent pay heed.

The Regent promised his young nephew that he would tell him all that had happened if only he would allow the servants to take Auguste’s body and prepare it as was fitting for the Crown Prince of Vere. 

When they were alone, he told Laurent of the battle between princes, how Auguste had wounded Damianos first but hesitated, and the brutish Akielon, ignorant and blind in his lust for the fight, fought on, not hesitating to deliver the killing blow. 

A future erased, leaving Laurent, utterly bereft and alone.

Laurent had lost too much in his fourteen years. His mother's death, a little over a year ago, had been the catalyst for this war. Yesterday he had reunited with his one true friend, only to have him killed in battle. Now his father and beloved brother, gone. He was beyond all feeling except one, hatred.

The Akielon scum had cut his brother down without mercy. Laurent had been deceived by books. There was no honour in Akielos, only barbaric greed.

Laurent’s grief was beyond tears. His face was bloodless. He was incapable of speech or movement. Hopeless. Without the comfort of his uncle he might have been a danger to himself that evening.

The Regent was a large bulk of a man with a deep, sonorous voice. He was also patient. He took his time, first holding Laurent’s hand while he spoke to him in gentle tones. Then, after an age, he pulled the young boy’s face into his chest and Laurent went, meek as a lamb. By the time an hour had passed, Laurent had curled into his uncle’s lap. 

When Laurent became aware again of the world around him, all he felt was chilled. He was cold enough that he thought his his bones would snap, his teeth chattering in his head. His uncle was a tiny beacon of warmth, his voice, murmuring reassurances, seemed to be coming from far away. Laurent was too beaten down to resist. He let himself be drawn, let the warmth envelope him, taking solace in his uncle’s familial embrace.

The Regent said, “Come. You should spend tonight in my tent. We have only each other now. Orphans. Our beloved brothers slain. Tomorrow, I will help you, and in the years ahead until you are ready to rule in your own right.” The Regent pressed his head close to his nephew’s and his lips brushed the shell of Laurent’s ear. “Let me comfort you, tonight.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ugh. The worst.
> 
> Epilogue tomorrow. I promise it won't hurt. 
> 
> Thank you for reading.


	11. Epilogue

Laurent woke with a start, his heart palpitating so fiercely that he had to suck in air to breathe. He rolled over and saw the large, dark-haired shape next to him, a long expanse of manly back. He froze and held his breath. His stomach lurched and his heart thundered to a stop. 

A feeling of wrongness combined with a sure knowledge that there was nowhere else to go. 

No escape.

Memories. Some of them were distressing, some comforting, others twisted and complex.

A cavalcade of emotions roiled. He felt young, small and vulnerable. 

Images flooded his mind, Triston, war, bloody battlefields, death, Auguste. Something else. 

Something dark and unspeakable.

Then grief, impossible, inconsolable, endless grief. The realisation that he was alone. And yet, he wasn’t, not quite.

The desire for human connection tangled with a sexual awakening and left him conflicted, used. Stricken.

Bile rose in his throat.

And stopped with new realisation.

This man wasn’t the Regent.

Laurent was no longer a child.

This man had a beautiful tapered back and sculpted muscles, marred only by a faint webbing of scars across the shoulders. This man had curling hair and dark skin. Laurent’s hand was drawn irrepressibly forward, floating ghostlike in the shadowy night to touch. A familiar musk stirred his sense memory with desire and something else. 

Trust. Absolute trust.

This man was a haven. 

When Laurent’s fingertips reached the smooth skin, he exhaled, and his relief was palpable.

Sensing the touch, Damen reached over his shoulder and drew Laurent’s hand to his lips. His mouth was warm and soft. 

“Another nightmare, my love?” Damen said.

Laurent whispered, “I’ll be fine.”

Satisfied there was no cause for alarm, Damen squeezed then released Laurent’s hand, his breaths even and slow.

Needing it, Laurent inched his body closer, snaking an arm around Damen’s waist, but then the bedding behind Laurent rustled. Surprised, he rolled toward the movement.

Another dark head appeared. This one was small but sturdy and was standing beside the bed. He was tugging at the crisp cotton, and he whispered rather loudly, “Papa. I had a dream. A _bad_ dream.”

Laurent touched the face of their son, Mira. He was the son of Damen’s blood and Laurent’s heart. He was the prince of the new empire. Right now he was sniffing wetly, tears on his cheeks. Laurent touched his shoulder and his hair. Mira’s skin was clammy and his curls damp. Laurent said, “You’re awake now.”

“But my pony, she was bitten by a snake. She died.” He hiccupped and sniffed. “She’s all deaded,” he added with conviction.

“No, that never happened. Your pony is safe in the stables, sleeping, as you should be.”

The boy stared at Laurent with dark, pleading eyes. Laurent lifted the bedding and the boy scrambled up on the bed, nestling himself in his father’s arms.

Laurent stroked the hair back from his son’s forehead and blew on his curls to cool him down.

“That’s nice, Papa. More.”

Eventually, the child’s body relaxed, becoming a warm, heavy weight. Laurent pressed his lips to the top of Mira’s head. 

From over his shoulder, Damen murmured, "You spoil him."

Laurent's tone was acerbic. "Certainly, I am the one who spoils the child. I am the one who allows him to eat all those sweetmeats before bed."

"Hush. I like watching him bring out your soft side." Damen rolled over, enveloping them both and becoming the largest spoon. 

Laurent said, under his breath, “Perfect. Now we can all melt from your oppressive Akielon heat.”

With a patience and determination born from long experience, Damen didn’t flinch, only tightened his hold, and Laurent melted into it. They both knew he spoke this way at times to hide what he was really feeling: overwhelmed with happiness.

Laurent, sandwiched by love and comfort, spoke softly into his son’s dark hair, “Come. We’ll chase those bad dreams away. Together.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sigh. Thank heavens. Although I find myself obsessed by Laurent in general, and how he came to be specifically, it is only in this knowledge, that he and Damen were given the most glorious HEA by the ridiculously talented C.S. Pacat, that I allow myself to glimpse into the dark places.
> 
> Thank you to anyone who read along.
> 
> My eternal gratitude to my first readers, the ones I want to please, my tireless pre-readers, Rinabina and Virginia. Their encouragement, gentle corrections and suggestions are all I could ask for.
> 
> Until next fandom, next time x


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